A bit of self-reflection reveals how obsessed we are about the relentless, irreversible passage of time.
and every flower a tiny tributary
that from the ground flows green and momentary Alice Oswald
Yet, on deeper reflection, when the anxious "me" has settled down, isn't the one who looks through these eyes outside of time entirely? Isn't this "one who knows" entirely free of personal concerns, abiding in deep silence, stillness & equanimity?
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