Petals of blood red germanium scattered after the thunder and rains of last night, have a beautiful bud fallen off too, detached from its root mother.
I make a mandala from the petals and I hold the bud in my hand. It starts to bloom in my heart. The crimson red petals growing bigger and bigger, light of divine remembrance spreading in my being.
I wake up to a troubled morning with despair on my lips. With so many things gone awry, I can not place my finger on what of the many things breaks my heart this morning. I feel fear and pain, my eyes refusing to open to grasp the light of the day. And I wonder if happiness is a choice. If this misery is a switch I could turn off. I debate on the absurdness of an inorganic and forced joy. I go back and forth between intended happiness and organic bliss. I suddenly think of what mother would say.
I am sat by the dayflower. One that looks like a butterfly, has two pastel blue wings, trunk of yellow blooms, with limbs of growth.
It is a weed they say. I haven’t understood the science of weed. I do know that it is the only flower in this bush of vines, most of them infected by insects and worms of untended soil. But in their unkempt form, in their wild, in their untamed clusters, there is so much beauty, so flawless are their stems and leaves. Their bodies, their shapes, their patterns, the color, the life in their silence.
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Such a surreal time to be living in.
I know we say that this is not the first time humanity has faced times like this, and yet, we are in an unique realm where we are for the first time connected in such strange ways.
No other generation was meeting a person across the world , a stranger , not in person, but in a set up of technology, and arranging their most intimate thoughts and feelings in front of the stranger for them to gauge, explore and respond to as it connects and relates to them.
What is even the definition…