35,000 feet above the snow drenched mountains of Colorado. I jot down the opening lines of a poem I might someday write, but doze before much comes out. The words sprawl lazily across my notebook, then trail off the page as sleep comes...
Sometimes I feel like a slingshot, hurled,
Flung far into the void.
At last come to rest on some distant shore.
Sometimes I feel like a banner unfurled,
Hoisted aloft, heraldic,
Your victory to proclaim in some distant war.
Sometimes I feel like a child, curled,
Asleep in your arms, Beloved
Dreaming of promises made I can't ignore
Hearing You say "Awake! You must do more!"
Dreaming of promises made in lives before...
– Jogyata. (Source)