Last summer I sat on a park bench
and thought about my life.
It has only a been a long cue of thoughts
that can’t be me.
And the one who was living that life all those years
Isn’t me either.
There is illness and death for her
but not for me.
They are objects too.
Even the bliss that comes and goes isn’t me.
I always remember this.
I used to have the impression
that things happen without doing.
But it is not an impression any more
It is a fact.Â
Where is the doer?
I love the silence.Â
No people, music or cars.
Only myself.
I waved goodbye to desire
a long time ago.
And fear too.
Once upon a time
they were constant companions.
Now I am my own companion.Â
It’s nice to be me.
