not even from the page - that nothing is apart from this subtle stream of inspiration, one thing in a constant welcome to itself in wild and varied forms. These words are sudden in appearance and find the page through means of thought, then fingers, and instantly fill the space of their belonging. The same is seen with the reach of every tree, flower, and blade of grass - the assumption of sky that all belong. Emptiness serves for the becoming of the world.
In this I view myself as not inspired, but as much inspiration as words themselves, I am delivered to the page as words, and too match it's emptiness through my own capacity to serve and hold. That it is all motion, finding myself in that same subtle stream, inspiration for my own appearance as well as what fills the capacity I offer - truly than, nothing is apart from any other thing.
~
Peace,
Eric
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