a blank page is not the goal it never was and it never should have been what good would that do? why was that even a thing? concentrating on the rise and the fall, hoping for the clarity that will sweep me away in its beauty and surprise but its really not like that, is it? do I count? do I note? equanimity escapes me as it always does, so with a tone of self-compassion I begin again striving to do what I love, but why is it simultaneously so easy and so hard? so difficult such a simple task, it can never end but there is joy in the enjoyment, in the attempt, in the breathing, in the practice the recognition is the attention, the failure is the success.