The unselfconcious sleep of the spirit. The peace that rests over the mind that is always saying half- absentmindedly, "Tomorrow I will live. Next week I will start my life." The bleeding, leaping, crawling-in-the-dust-to-find, losing oneself in fields and forests in pursuit of something that is not hanging in the romantic air of the future, but lays within the grasp of my thought in this very sweet moment.
The pavement exuded earth and cedar; the rain fell onto my eyelashes and stayed there in childlike droplets. The air smelled pink and unassuming. The sky was gray-white and bled life so that dreams can grow. I looked up at the honey-suckle vine and tried to hush, just for a moment, the ceaseless interior babble that has me in it's claws, the flow of trivial and trash that is held at bay, if just for a breathless moment of awe to be what was and what will be.
Oh, to truly see,
to allow yourself to be filled up like a new wineskin,
to breathe in air like light.
to master the art of devotion,
to be planted, open-mouthed,
for to love is to be a child,
and to be a child is to live.
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