It has been a wacky cosmological scene, these past moments pouring over into this day today. I experience universal petit morts, little deaths, in the blanket above and in my inner sky. A Piscean blue moon, rare and very fitting. I have learned vast leagues of emotional currency, the mettled ebb and flow of my heart.
I realize very much that I must think less and fly more. Do.
But in this doing I cannot be brash and sudden and foolishly flung. I must be like that of a river or a redwood tree. A movement so powerful in its slowness. Steadiness.
And those who teach me this slowness are in every pocket of this eye socket, of mine. They have both winged swiftness and golden haired quietness. And I love them each as One. I love them all. My love is One.
It is easy for one to think so much and so sporadically, and miss the nectar of every one flower. The teacher however, is forever present and in every being. It guides a faithful student back.
I am doing my bliss. My joy. Not pondering over it until it is a rotten fruit. Or as a neutered fruit that I force from the tree and make to rot. A neutered rotting. I do that too. Efficiently, in my chagrin.
And I am riding a bliss train.
A train that has broken from the tracks and soars upward with the laziness reserved only for those in inexplicable bliss, those who surrender. Surrender, slowly, everything.
Effortless effort, like the moment of a river's and mountain's conception.
I can now fly I realize, but not trying to at all.
Ah, it looks so easy on one-two binary type. And it is.
With a drop of courage and plucked time.
\\LOVE.
M .A. R
go, go where your heart flows and do not doubt the streaming, winging, feeling
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