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what was then, what will be, but the inkling of a seed? accepting rain and sunshine and being kicked and covered with dirt. washed out, battered. it does not think, it does not give. it is.

i make the frugal mistake of accepting that everything that happens, happens to me. we are not generally beings of acceptance, only wishers and flashers and seekers of, "look at me!"

what life entails is happening all around me. what's happening inside me is of no concern.