Anything which abounds hurts, although it is also precisely what sets us free, imprisons at the same time. Retained or extirpated. It’s all the same. When, remote or close, stretched away, ache, fertile like some sticky black soil, schools your vein the same. Elevated, spirit, broken, never ends.
Age hollows dreamers sensitivity and sets them in perpetual flight. Reuniting same with same, the whole which comes without words, and brings news from past in the now.
Thank you so much for all this. I will not forget. I have forgotten everything. I treasure. Attics. Cellars. Lockers. Larders. Garners. Where I never go. Highlights. Unexpected dawns. All this kept hidden. Away from rumors and precipitation. Desires to get more.
When one of these dreams sometimes calls, it does not expect an answer, it just longs, and that’s enough, and that’s plenty. It listens to the echo slowly unfolding in the adjoining forest. And this echo is proof of your presence, proof that dream still lingers.
A space around you. You, free to respond. And the rest, nothing. The rest: mist.
words and image ©Marie Veronika Zorn
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