You aks me if you are pretty, like you can’t see that in the mirror.
You ask me if you are good enough, but enough for what?
You are wondering if you deserved, like there is an authority to issue a verdict.
Dissociation from the ideas.
Deprivation from the senses, from the mental patterns.
But the heart is still beating, the breath is normal.
I hug you. You hold me tight.
You lost your persona, yet you remain conscious.
Is it euphoric or is it disturbing?
Tomorrow you will be asking me the same questions.
Again you won’t be sure, even you know the answers.
All is good, you are home.