Morning Dreams, Mute Awakenings
I am sliding, paper thin, into all of the crevices of the Earth. I am flowing, I am sparkling to life, I am brimming with warmth and a trusted silence. I am light and airy and without desire. I need nothing but to live. I am floating in the clouds, looking down from a solemn and time-worn vantage, the trade winds at my back and the world spread out beneath me in an endless patchwork, a blanket thick and green. I am filled with the levity of a child, the clean-white purity of innocence. We are all children-we have always been, and always will be. We can never seem to rise above our own blameless limitations; we can’t find solace in our insignificance, nor accept the inconsequence of our actions, nor relinquish hope in a greater vision of purpose. But if we are truly so small, so sincere in our desires, so simple and good and helplessly blind, then there’s no longer any need for divine commission, no purpose for guilt or shame, no reason for the thousands of ways we devise to torture ourselves each day. We can learn to exist, simply and wholly, for ourselves and our sacred causes; we can follow our aimless paths without hesitation or fear. Life was made for such things, and though it is certainly our most precious gift, there was never anything so worthy of being wasted.