TTK No. 39

Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I am riddled with holes. Every belief hangs as tattered as the prayer flags I saw from that temple hill in Kathmandu. Yet still they hang from me, like I am the string that connects them and raises them to the sky. I do not wish to be the string, or the flags, but instead I wish to be those high mountains distant in the fog. So dark and menacing they seem, piercing the clouds, sharp edges that cut. Might I be them? Might I truly be the mountains, and if so, would I also be the earth from which they grow? Would I be the spinning sphere that soars the universe giving purpose to all the stars and moons? Would I have such purpose that even the void would reflect my presence and be undone and done by my coming and going? All I know today is the prayer flags flap inside me, and they would flap still, even if were everything. But if only I knew myself more than the string!