Morning

The seeds of despair are not to be dust. It settles on the soul and ferments it for growth. Despair born out of reflection, regret and resentment is fuel for the growth of the soul. The soul becomes bathed in tears, sweat and saliva. 

Tears bubble to the surface, as water spouts from the stone, under pressure awaiting release. Sweat perspired by sheer effort to resist the urge to sway away from the straight unerring path. Saliva drying up in the mouth, ever begging for assistance from only that which can give it.

The morning is always mistaken to be when the sun rises and light breaks the sky. No, the morning is in the pitch darkness that births dew on grass and shivers in the spine. The morning is born in the twilight only witnessed by stars and moon, between the two suns of sunrise and sunset. The morning emerges, greeted by only a few, yet it holds the grand entrance of the one that causes the sun and moon to tick-tock perfectly.

I seek the morning that 

is lived by few and embraced by even fewer. 

I seek the morning that 

comes with the breeze of solitude and silence.

I seek the morning that 

precedes the daybreak, like a gentle mother.

I seek the morning that 

holds promise for my meeting with Him.

Kiting the hurricane.

We see neither past the day nor night of our lives. 

We live in complete darkness (of ignorance) to our fates in the future. 

We hold neither the information nor the capability,

to effect the path that we take in the course of Time. 

We are pushed and pulled by forces we mistakenly believe

to be within our grasp.

We are kites in a hurricane.

The kite let loose, far from the string that bind it to the Owner, thrashes about in the storm of forces, seeing neither pattern nor control in its fate. It is thrown about relentless, the wind furious and unthinking of the fates of those that reside it in. In the end, the kite is broken, torn and becomes unrecognizable. It can no longer fly and falls to the ground, no longer what it was before.

The kite pulled in, close to the string that bind it to the Owner, is still left to the forces of the hurricane winds, but it is within control, it is within means of control, within safety. The kite is close to the Owner and the owner takes care of the kite, as the kite has sought to be taken care of. The wind throws it about, but the kite is safe. The kite's movements are restricted slightly, but it is well, far from the fury of the uncaring hurricane. It then returns to the Owner, intact and appreciated.

Which kite will you be, my dear Self?