movement.

With such a passion to pen my heart onto paper and let fly my inner stirrings, I wonder if my rush to grab a pen is fast enough for the expansion within. What I wish to express cannot be disclosed quickly nor clearly enough for full satisfaction. There is always more to present, and always a better way to unwrap it. Words seem too small, like a mere interlude on an album of dreams. And yet every song is beautiful, every moment worthy of intertwining with the next, every bit of meaning ready to be connected with and understood by the others. Is it the same for a larva to dream of being a butterfly as it is for me to dream of becoming a glorious being, one of no imperfections and completely lovely, whether it be physically or spiritually? Can I sprout wings and fly in my heart and mind before I shed my cocoon? My feet never fully touch the ground and my struggle is continual, unfailingly being blown this way and that by the unseen; I'm like a snowflake twisting and turning my way into the palms of warm hands, ardently striving to decipher the wind that brought me to them. Independent of nothing, I am cradled and soaked in... the gentility envelopes me.

I wish desperately to explain this essence, this beauty which surrounds me like the breeze. I long vigorously for the availability of copious amounts of articulation and deep understanding within the midst of unexpected interaction and sudden embrace. With all these precious people passing by daily, and with so much compassion fire burning up my insides, I simply want to reach and be reached; yet, this cold, stony body allows only small sparks to emit, never full flames lest the fire chaotically spread and rage unconfined, and apprehend and scorch the hearts of millions, leaving us all as nothing but crisp, refined metals. Our carnality won't permit such transformation; propagating growth at all, especially in others, limits our enjoyment of life's fleeting desires. But such transformation won't permit carnal pleasures to gain a foothold with deceit. Our spirits want to fly; our bodies want to slither. We are sorely mistaken or misled if we believe that walking is the compromise. We must make like a plane on a runway, quicken the pace, gain back some momentum, and take to the flight for which we were made, soaring purposefully for our promised destination with the limitless horizon in plain sight and nothing but the sun beckoning, leading us toward eternity.