Seven twenty four

The earth turns and tilts into starlight just close enough to cause life to burst onto its surface. Moutains of stone and moisture mingle together to hold the burning orange at bay, keep it back to white and slants of yellow thorugh the brilliant blue water-reflected sky.

Wide unsharpened golden bars stab through sheets of grey gunmetal damp waiting, hovering and hanging to sink chilly into soil, clothes, fur, feathers, skin.

How beautiful the sunrises through the rainforest winter are.
How strange to think I could have enitrely missed them, had no concept of them, thought this grey was solid and indefinitely ongoing.

Perception alters reality and nothing is linear.
Motion is existence and to feel it, see it, know it, be it — is to be alive.

My soul is part and parcel of this motion. My love a manifestation of the appreciation I have evolved so as to be mentally capable of. My hope is like mirrors into which I stop to see this stark reality. A momentary reflection of the empathy my vibrations echo through bones of trees and mountains and seas.

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