Does a cactus understand it’s prickly?
Does a pencil know it’s writing lines?

Does a sock realize it’s being worn,
Does a teapot know it’s boiling over?

Does a cloud understand it’s floating by?
Does a brush realize it’s painting strokes?

Does a coin feel its journey in someone’s pocket,
Does a door know it’s opening or closing?

Does a match know it’s sparking flame?
Does a pebble realize it’s part of the path?

Does a river know it’s always moving,
or does it simply follow the current,
without thought,
just being?

Maybe it’s the not knowing
that makes us move,
that makes us be,
each moment unfolding
without question.

or maybe its 3:16 a.m. and I’m just going crazy