One Step Closer
One step closer we move seemingly forward through time. The clock ticks and clicks pointing to an unknown future. Blank pages of parchment await our own ink.
We look down below our feet and see the steps disappear as if the moment we just experienced can not be proven… but alas it can not. We can only hold a memory of what that moment once was.
We are just casualties of a seemingly realistic experience, an epic novel unfolding in every moment… casualties because we believe this life is commanding our every move, our every decision and those moments of time seem to be cast onto a vast ocean with no reprieve as far as the eye can see.
But as the fairy tale falls away, as the blissful colors retreat like butterflies fluttering away from the safety of their cocoons… or as the soft, sweet breeze from a child's mouth blows the dandelion seedlings from the meadow into the shadowed forest—though dotted with beams of golden sunlight, we, at times, lose our way into darkness. Our own glow fades. The warmth of love that we truly are dissipates and the chill of the outside world seeps in. We float along in this life at times in the shadows of the tall trees. And then, with the slightest nudge of loving energy the tree gives way to the warmth of that beam of light just on the edge of the darkness. As if for just a moment in time, we close our eyes and the weight of our trials is lifted and we sense we are floating rather than treading to stay afloat.
Past lives, past loves, past hopes and dreams… they meld with all that we are like an elixir precisely concocted by the hands of the illusive alchemist of time. His words blend into an unforgettable story. We taste just a drop and find ourselves whirling and swirling like stirring colors of artists paints. But this reality is the woven fabric of the canvas and not of the pigment. We are the pigment—all that we blend into countless shades of color with washed brushes. These brushes have cast so many strokes. They've been washed over and over yet their wooden handles are dyed from those moments gone by, telling stories from the layers of paint in the works we've created. But we paint, dabbing new color of sunlight over the darkness of stormed skies and drops of rain.
Our greatest challenge is trying to see through windowpanes that stream with these rain drops, trying to make sense of what is on the other side. But, rather than 'panes' we see 'pains' and weave them over and through the fabric of our souls… our canvas thousands of years in the making.
Yes, the fairy tale falls away… but a masterpiece was certain to be created in the progression of this life. Shall all that you've created be looked upon by us all, my beloved, with awe… with sincerity and love. For, all that I feel, I know… and all that I know means nothing.
What I feel is all that I can truly embrace. The soul can not be touched. It has no substance. It's all that is true… all that we can believe in. My love spans these thousands of years and so many lifetimes. It is all that I am and ever shall be. So, I step... one step closer into the unknown welcoming and feeling it all.