Must’ve been confusing for him, for he was a happy kid.
He had enough joy in him to fill many lives and lifetimes.
His light was enough to illuminate the entire Universe.

He was my sweet child.
He was born to me.
He was mine.

That’s where the pain sits.
In the ‘me’ and the ‘mine’.

1. There is suffering.
2. This is my suffering.
   

1. I miss him like hell.
2. He is greatly missed.

1. I could’ve, should’ve …
2. Things could’ve been different.

1. Only if I had been aware enough.
2. If we all are aware, we can stop this unnecessary heartache.

The prison of ‘me’ keeps me glued on one blood-splattered spot. My feet forever red. What if I was’nt a woman or a man, grand-father or Aunt, a janitor or a bus-driver, a traveller or a house-holder, urban or rural, a pop-singer or a vagabond, black, brown or beige, middle aged or infant? What if I had no labels. Then who would I be?

Would the pain be as deep as ‘mine’?

Can I break these shackles of conditioning and be pure consciousness? Can I escape this convenient web of fiction and dive into the deepest layers of pristine Beinghood?

Yes. Sometimes. When I allow the magic of the rhythm of the breath to work. To be anchored in this ecstatic moment.