Spider Webs

Today’s meditative moment very nearly requires no words, no recognition of self, nothing but the ever-present ear-ringing in one’s mental space as reassuring presence of self’s mortality.

Shall one recall one’s past four hundred Earth years in your future, the further tales of Lee and Guin?

Will words suffice to describe their accomplishments?

One has no “what one must do” but what one did to complete “what one will do.”

Time to contemplate our future.

Some of us are dead leaves blown in the winds of autumn, trapped in spider webs.

Some are photons.

Some are gas bubbles.

Some are waterfalls.

Some are soma.

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