self-portrait

walking down the steps of the temple my sarong came undone for the third time. rather than stop and congest the flow of people behind me i let it go. there were no gasps of surprise, not even from myself. it was a windy evening and though many flowers remained affixed to my hair the sarong took easy leave and when we reached the bottom steps i turned back, barely making it out in the distance surely on its way to the mountaintop. i wanted to believe it was a sign, an answer to a prayer not spoken aloud. the moon was full and candles surrounded the entrance where i stood in wonder at the homelessness of worship feeling like an amateur reprint of a rembrandt struggling to interpret the dialect of fossils.

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