Monday, April 23

Cosmic Dancer

When I breath in the stillness of that true life and take a moments pause, what comes into view is the rise and fall of the most delicate and subtle silhouettes. These formless forms of mist rise up to dance in freedom and then dissolve into the nothingness from which they came. I see them as they interlace with the ruffled seams of my own threading.
This is my doing and my own undoing.
The magic and the madness of these dancing silhouettes devours my being hurdling me into a spiraling collapse that in an instant becomes a soaring flight into the emptiness from which I descended.
I have fallen.
And Now I have risen.
I call this my life. I call it my story. A fictitious tale of silhouettes going nowhere.
I am soaring above the aggravations of the subtle deceptions.
From this restful place all there is, is this wild dance of forms I’ve called stories orchestrated by an invisible and extraordinary story teller.
I’m that story teller and the one living out the story.
It’s incredible this view and this viewing.
I am a cosmic dancer, a silhouette of invisible strings.
I’m the weaver of the stories, and all the madness that it brings.
I am the madness, the maddened, with most poisonous stings.
I’m a lover of forms, and the destroyer of things.
I am the cosmic dancer, a silhouette of invisible things. And I am asking you to come and dance with me.

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