The best teachers don’t tell us the answer. They help us to see what’s already inside us. They are the gardeners of the truth.
It beats and beats, inaudible to those who can only see. Deaf to the true treasure buried beneath its bosom of masculinity, too often mistaken for its ostensible beauty. Too often sold as a magazine cover.
Dismissing the soul too deep, too old, too layered, too soft.
Tempered to withstand the application of hot and cold…. forged in the streams of time, by those who came before him. The ancestors from the world bordering violent enemies once before, now neighbors on the same page facing extinction of fragile humanity in the name of modernization.
We are the sum of the flames of the forgotten past. We are shaping something greater than ourselves before our own fire is extinguished. Without them I am nothing. Without us they are lost forever.
The treasure trove of your creativity is inked in black and surreal.
The sun’s spotlights are focused on a set of trees. The wind gyrates their branches adorned with bangles of scattering leaves. Mother Nature’s symphony commands my attention.
I obey blindly to see the things invisible to the sight. The shadows dance on the trusting eye lids, to let the wind sprinkle magical sawdust to join the nature’s dance with the beat of my footsteps.
Slowing my pace as it glides along the path with the eyes shut to welcome the beauty of the fleeting moment. I count to ten before the lights enter my pupil, and I rejoin the world. Behind me, I leave the secret wildness of my imagination.