The thoughts come and go. Each time I get caught back up time and time again in pockets of thought and then discovering the moment when I realize I’m caught up again.
Are words my hiding place or are they my resting place? Are they both?
I finally have to ask, do discrimination and creativity end with me? Is it that I use them and want to claim them but have to admit that I’m not the author of them?
When I’m a follower of my own being, my own deep awareness, do I make up a singular religion? A no-name and know-nothing-for-sure religion? If so, how long have I been a member of this religion? Is it that I don’t know for sure because membership is automatic but not recognized?