Is there religious existence?

Why don’t we commit to religious existence?

Why don’t we exist religiously?

Why is religious a concept of so much knowledge?

Why can’t we be religious like a flower, like a cloud, like the air?

What keeps us busy with things?

What is taking us to other times than the very present?

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And if we want to find the answer,

If we want this answer to bloom at the heart of our heart and being,

Can we admit that we are all but religious?

And that the moment religious comes to be, it comes to be with words, not religious at all.

If we admit, that we were never religious, we don’t know what true religious being is,

If we can see it, and admit it as truth,

See the fact of it,

Is it possible that the door, or the window, or the tiny crack,

Is open to really dwell in religious existence, as it is?