The reality is crumbling like sprouting rye in the fields above white cliffs.
To the west from the fields is a cathedral of forest.
In the east direction is an ordinary cathedral, beautiful nevertheless.
I sit on my sofa made of three logs and stare into uprooted roots of an oak, like a television.
I sit and stare into the roots that hide the fire we made from the sight of seagulls and grasshoppers.
I sit and wonder, how convenient it is that wood burn and clay can be made into bricks.
This reality is truly magnificent, although it sometimes crumbles in an unpredictable fashion.
Like a brick under a hammer.
Like an ego under a reality.
My observation suggests that when you truly enquire into the nature of your reality, you'll formulate questions you may hesitate to answer to.
Because the answers could render the whole idea of happiness pretty useless.
We live on deeper levels than our job, status or social media profile.
At least the forest does and there's nothing else to say about it.
It began to rain. The fire hiss. I'm going to my tent.