The sky, a perfect white, a blank canvas waiting for the sunset to give it life.

Rain falling, creating puddles, creating reflections, some reflecting the world in a good way, others reflecting it as bad.

But some rain falls on the leaves of an old tree, craggy, withered from age.

These few droplets, are like the eyes of a child, looking all around at once,

they capture the world, seeing everything,

the good and the bad, yet still seeing the true beauty of the world in that single moment, before falling to the ground below, into the puddles, which reflect the world as a black and white place.

The sun sets, painting the sky a vibrant picture that no artist can match, the rich colours making the evening come alive, showing that the world is not black and white nor as we see it, rather it is as it is and is ever-changing.


This way up

The mind is not a box.

You can not just put things in or take things out and expect them to stay the same.

The mind is a river, every river different.

Some things lay on the surface.

Others cause ripples that permeate the water.

Yet some things sink, like ships on the sea.

They lay, forgotten, blocked from view,

until some day they may re-emerge, rediscovered.

But all ships have a reason for sinking.

Rivers are deep, with infinite possibilities beneath the edge,

There are those that look pretty but are shallow with no life within.

Rivers that split into few or many streams.

And rivers that aren’t rivers at all.

The mind is no box, it has no label saying this way up. 

Minds are very fragile but last all the same.

They are as complex as the universe itself.

We know a lot about the mind, the universe.

Or do we?

Ideas for both contradict with others.

We know nothing.

Yet as whole we experience everything.

Unique. But many similar.

Only one is unique.