Is it a wonder when certain thoughts cross our minds,
insert themselves into the spaces reserved for other things,
that we should suddenly find ourselves yearning,
almost desperate for quiet?
The history of ourselves, as it comes into view,
is a web of beliefs – not lies but patterns
knit into a tapestry for all the world to feel.
Each thread fingered like a rosary bead,
counted like the knots of a quipu.
And even so, what do we know but mystery?
Is it a wonder you begin to worry?
Thinking perhaps you are not who you thought,
that from here forward any notion of yourself
must contain a seed of doubt.