proportions
Small
Insignificant
Connected
A strand knotted inside another,
and another,
unfurling without end.
So vast I lose myself in it.
So incomprehensible
that waking life feels like a hallucination
with a schedule.
The little goals we set—
measured hopes—
dwarfed beneath what pulses just beyond reach.
Sometimes I catch myself in a mirror
and forget what year it is.
Little dust mote,
shape-shifter as the light hits.
What I was,
and whatever I’ll become—
neither wants to explain itself.
As Ram Dass says:
Ah well