There are moments
that arrive quietly,
without invitation,
without fanfare,
and yet they undo the furniture
of certainty.

For me,
it happens in stillness.

Not always.
Not predictably.
Meditation does not obey demand,
like weather refusing the arrogance
of calendars.

But sometimes,
the edges loosen.

The world I know,
the dependable world of clocks,
washing baskets,
emails, conversations,
the ordinary architecture of being alive,
grows strangely transparent.

And something else enters.

The colours begin first.

Green no longer merely green,
but alive with an ancient memory,
as though the trees have remembered
their original language.

The sky deepens
into something impossible to explain,
not above me
but through me.

And for a fleeting breath,
I am no longer standing in nature.

I am nature.

I am the sky stretching itself open.
I am the wind passing unnoticed
through leaves.
I am the silence beneath birdsong.
I am the quiet intelligence
of roots reaching underground
without applause.

There are moments
when the boundary between me
and the world
feels like a misunderstanding.

As though somewhere along the way,
I forgot.

Forgot that separation
might simply be useful theatre.
Forgot that perhaps
we belong to everything
far more intimately
than language can hold.

And then,
just as softly as it came,
the moment folds itself away.

The kettle whistles.
The phone rings.
Life returns wearing its familiar clothes.

Yet something remains.

A tenderness, perhaps.
Or a suspicion.

A suspicion that the reality
I move through each day
is only one layer of truth.

That beneath the noise
of schedules and obligations,
there exists another knowing.
Wordless. Vast. Patient.

And though these moments are fleeting,
gone almost before I can touch them,
they leave behind a strange ache.

Because somehow,
those brief dissolvings
feel more real
than the walls of my home,
more solid than certainty,
more familiar than my own reflection.

So when people ask
if I have ever questioned reality,

I think of colour.
Of sky.
Of disappearing.

Of the sacred bewilderment
of becoming small enough
to belong to everything.

And wondering, quietly,
if perhaps reality
is not what holds us tightly,

but what finally
lets us dissolve.