There lies an unpronounced discernment in the weather; the cold has been making an appearance exclusively at dawn. Perhaps, the discernment is because the hearts are growing colder, frozen in the moments of quandaries of what should be. How exquisite is it even to picture something like this?
Her heart must be buried deep in the dark; her passiveness might as well match his persuasiveness. Never has the of warmth of the sun reached the abyss; the darkness disallowed the light.
Her heart must be buried deep in the dark; her passiveness might as well match his persuasiveness. Never has the of warmth of the sun reached the abyss; the darkness disallowed the light.
Yet her mind seems brimming with warmth merged with a certain kind of passivity. Passivity—must be a state where everything is zeroed down into nothingness—as if it never will hold her interest. Such a wild paradox.
A certain kind that conforms to holding on only to let go; to live till the end only to die; that will eventually lead to salvation. The question What will be? does not raise storms. Unwinding thoughts learn to let go, releasing a tempest in the mind quietly disrupting the tranquility of the ongoing moment...leaving, dissolving, settling and unsettling...all at once.
This passiveness collapses after the void has been filled. It lies in holding that is to be released.
It lives in desiring nothing but attaining the absolution, holding an ice-cold heart and compassionate mind together.
The warmth will soon sear and metamorphose into rage with finesse—finesse so sublime that will take you by wonder with its convolutions. And even though you have already experienced it multiple times, you will look at it with your scintillating eyes. Because every time it will be impeccable.
Every time it will be new.
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