remembering.

To hold a thought like a precious, rare jewel, unearthed from a deep inner cavern.

To turn it over in the light and marvel at its brilliance,

its sharp, intimate truth.

Only to discover it has been carried in the pockets of humanity for ages.

Worn smooth by touch.

Named in a dozen languages.

Written in margins.

Sung beside fires.

Buried in books we’ve yet to read.

We must accept the quiet shattering of the belief that our inner revolutions are wild, untouched terrain,

unmapped, unmarked, ours alone.

Perhaps every thought we call our “own” is simply a seed finding old soil.

Insight is not creation.

It is recognition.

A remembering.