While I was stepping softly, upon still earth, cushioned in conscious breath, amidst tall trees inside a forest, hushed, save for the rustling of leaves, upon still branches, three questions living on their own, without the need for answers, wafted with the breeze.

What’s this breath?

From where does it begin?

What’s this stillness, upon which it’s felt?

Perhaps there are answers seeking those questions, elusive themselves, since, as yet unspoken.

Am I a Matchmaker, to find, and to marry such answers, to such serious questions?