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I fail and fail to accomplish the simple act of being present for what is and instead spin up the big machinery of my worry, the slapdash contraption of my hopes, the dark sea of fear. All these imaginary planets of a cosmos not yet congealed, but maybe, maybe visible.
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Bereft of the present moment and its particular disasters, laid out before me, the only feast I’ll ever be invited to.
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How I struggle in an imaginary wind, wrapping my coat around me, hurrying, always hurrying to some future door that will never open.
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When will I simply sit and let what light there is fall on me?
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Not yet, not yet.
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