The Universe whispers to me from behind every empty page and blank canvas. I’m listening.

Could it be that all this while, what I thought of as an escape, is simply the experience of what it is, to be in the present?

Could it be that all I need to do, is to be present to everything, even to the nausea, to the fever and to the delirium, and to see from where it comes?

Could it really be so that all is well with the present moment?

Could it be so that it is only in the present that I am truly creative, truly healing?

Could it be so that I’m well in the very same instant of my thinking it so?

Where else but in the present could I find my release, from my prisons of past and future?