Slow

I have not abandoned you. I just don’t know what to write when I don’t know my own weary soul with any real conviction anymore. Are these words worth anything?The confidence of being young is weathered away by the humility that continues to be instilled by all of life in this strange world whose density I feel increasingly dissociated from.

I reside lovingly only to 315 square feet where lights twinkle and scented smoke bleeds as I cry freely. For the duality of existence on this plane. For the death and destruction of lives, souls and the planet. For the way small flowers still edge their way through blood stained dirt scattered across all corners of the earth. The darkness of 3D reality: where there are humans there is equal part destruction as there is beauty. I weep at my own internal chaos and the never ending fear of uncertainty that perturbs my peace. The unease that has pervaded my existence for the past several weeks. The restlessness. The stress. The small and the big sad.

To be slow is the only way I make space for my own sensitivity. I get older. I grow quieter. I feel more distant from the new world but ever more connected to the richness of my own inner landscape. After carving out more peace than ever before I become less afraid to sit here and be with whatever arises.

Be still, tired soul. Be slow, now.

Rest.

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