last night. i sat on the floor. my back straight against the wall. and i read virginia woolf and sipped warm tea with honey. what calm inside those moments! what life! what joy! minutes passed... and then hours... and soon, the hour was late, and the moon was blazing outside. but i? i was inside. inside a world that swallowed me whole. inside a world that started as someone else's, but continued as my own. the words walked through me, as though they were phantoms. they found a resting spot inside me... and became mine. 

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect–the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever–

now. it's monday morning. a new day. a new week. but i am in no rush. no stones hurled from the bank disturb this quiet pond's equilibrium. 

i am here. 
and i am breath. 
and i am life.