There was never a moment when Rigpa was not here.
But somewhere along the way, I forgot.
Not with thunder, not with tragedy.
Just a quiet fog settling in—
soft as breath,
blurring the edge of things without ever touching them.
I slipped a filter between myself and myself.
Not between me and the world,
not even between me and others—
but between me and the simple, shining fact of being.
This veil had no color, no fabric, no scent.
It was made of thoughts.
Of names.
Of stories.
“I am this.”
“I am not that.”
“I should be…”
“I once was…”
“I will be when…”
