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Subtract monotony and repetition and comfort zones and you have
yourself its most organic form. You rise to the occasion, to the sky, to
the fucking stars and you see, in the sea, who you really are. Last
night, in the sky, I was the closest to a full moon I'll ever be,
however many hundred metres high in the sky. Salut lune, bisous soleil.
The calm transtion from dusk to darkness was more than enough for me to
retrive my pencil and paper from my golden satchel to write more aout
love and luck and the loss accompanies them.
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The words I write here are letters to myself, to vanquish the negative-a-tea. It feels now that the hindrance remains in a shaky sense of convition towards absolutely everything, and Nowhere is as attractive as Anywhere. Does this make any sense?Knowing only effort lies in between where I am and where I want to be -- it kills me slow and fast. For you cannot measure perserverence, nor can you script a recipe for content. The question remains forever - am I trying hard enough? I am trying too hard? Is there such a thing? Is this the rock-bottom of my rabbit hole or could I fall even further before I am to ricochet of the earth towards the sky?
I grip the sides of this infinite-seeming cavity, and realise it takes strength to maintain my position if I don't want to tumble further down. So, if it takes only a little more spirit to climb higher and higher - what am I doing staying stagnant, really? All things are brought into being and sustained by the compassionate, so go on and attain the bliss of knowing and experience. It's a privilege I promise.
Don't be afraid to believe in all moments - yesterday, today and tomorrow.
xo
