Excerpt from my journal

Cultivating an orchard of experience
every tree is planted
in a particular moment of sensation
the soil is the fertile ground
of the infinite sound

a journal is a beautiful thing
it collects the scattered expressions
fears, inspirations, hopes
scribbled onto obscure margins

life is a feeling
there are many such feelings
they are all over

life is feeling

"it is always being written"

streams of thought are like streams of life
you never know where, or how, they begin
you never know how and when they end

yet it is certain nonetheless

From my Journal

whatever happens is anyones guess
we feel, we want
we anger and we love
we thirst for the sweet juices
that life experiences offer

all that we feel
and want, and express
and learn, is our experience

yet, what happens when
the body we inhabit dies?
where does that accumulated life go?

how can we really know?