I see you.
I see you in the thousand winds blowing through a night darkened by uncertainty.
I see in you those glossy prisons you fear to interrupt, sparkling as they do atop mountains of molehills.
I see you in the first rays of the pink morning, in the wondrous and calculated dive of the Falcon who floats effortlessly in place, whose riding of the winds looks like nothing more than a tail twitching an invisible suspension apparatus into life.
I see in you the risen, the dead, the mythical, the real.
And I see you in every shadow that fakes its way across the shutters of time.
In each and every moment that you have, you create and ponder. Your writing is always, and your bardistry perpetual: A magic spinning itself ever brighter, with or without pens, with or without time, with or without the means to do the stars justice.
In whatever truth you’re crafting –
And in any season, sad or laughing –
Remember only that your craft can be achieved without tools, without platforms, need be with a pebble found on a beach and scratched into the salty sands if that’s all you’ve got.
You write stuff.
Permanence is as much an illusion as the fixed nature of a river or the ocean.
And your time is finite.
Therefore, do your thing – and mind nothing else.
Ask only if the business is inside you or whether you serve. Or whether, perhaps, it is both.
Separateness, you see, is imaginary.
Leticia “waxing lyrical” Mooney
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