Sick and dying. I am the one and the many. Cocooned by a stagnant, opaque viscosity that will not let me see out. Nor will she hint at a timeline. I have forgotten the god of emergence.
Safely blind to any sense of future, the deep, boundless well is persistent, offering no shortage of opportunity to adventure where I never knew an invitation. Until now...
This. This long, relentless now that insists upon the death of my hope for the familiarity of the light, ensuring I do not mistake a synthetic source for the real thing.
Bottomless basket that has carried me downstream to my unravelling, bless your wisdom, for I would not come here unbidden.
Only when you ring out to fancy all who make up my soul will I know you are the one. All fabrications, no matter how earnest, will find themselves in prostration to the truth we've all been waiting to remember.
Then, she will have found the voice of her soul - unmasked, unmuted, untold from the lies it was innocently wrapped in - cloaked until the day of reckoning and radiant celebration, having pierced the blackness with the discernment of a pure heart, humble and fierce in her knowing.
Praises to Grace, who only requires that we write our own story, and leave others well enough alone, except in our intelligent weaving.
The day I was glad to realize I was dying was the day I knew I had an entirely new life ahead of me. One that only I could tend, as the keeper of the hearth and the flame that is mine to hold.
This is the responsibility of stewardship. Light-hearted as we can bear, precious and beautiful, and need I even say? Sacred.