Does not it seem our futures are ever the more brittle pieces of plastic that end before their proper season, their expected breadth of time? Residual value be damned! Wow factor in those first moments place a mortgage note to the extent that a few tittles of today's bliss imprisons us beyond our own measure.
"...the dissolution of a dream becomes the fertile compost of possibility." -Maria Popova via themarginialian.org
I suppose these things we have beheld, seen, and heard, and in our gloom of the Dark Night of the Soul, ever the more bright is caused heaven and nature to gleam and glisten. From the voluminous nitre of the depths all is light by comparison and we are enlivened with thoughts of future prosperity. But in the darkness of the soul, a season of joy is brought to good in a season of gloom.
Imbolc, the old world interlude that is strangely in tandem with today's Groundhog Day, marks the window that promises tomorrow, the window of our hopes, and our hopes are the inscrutable hieroglyphics of things unseen. Tendrils four tether winter's weary daydreams to our memories of seasons and wishes for the coming spring.
In the common canvas cloak of our natural world, mutual destiny has set us to our appointed ends, without the divine reasoning, however, lest we taste of the Fruit of Tree anew and risk condemnation, risking our joy of life's indeterminant butterfly float amidst our supple but fragile mortalities.
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