I sit here with myself and watch what is passing by.
Every thought brings along its own colour, either dark or light or something in between.
And every thought vibrates its own music, either happy or sad or something in between.
I cannot watch their birth; so are they really born and where and out of what?
And when they appear, a happy world or a sad world appears or something in between.
And all the thinkable and all the known seems there,
endlessly performing in myself.
I cannot watch them disappear; so are they really there and where exactly do they go?
Who could really tell?
For they come from where I am not and they go where I will not be found.

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