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softer grounds
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LIMINAL SPACES
02:53
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The Morning the ripped down branches and wooden stumps changed the ground into a graveyard was when spring started in the forest. The moss had a fluorescent neon glow and the dead leafs shun a copper red against the ivy dressed treas.
Winter is the time of transformation. Once you find yourself on the other side of it you may not be who you were before entering. While our spirits rest, our shadows are the ones who lead.
While our vessel lays still in hibernation, the calm is only exterior. As deep in our sleep, below what we know of ourselves, spins the reoccurring dream in an endless spiral. A black bowl, porcelain white plate, a twisted string, cold water. We may not understand these symbols, as our spirit is still a seed. But wait not for revelations, as time is a loop we will ride forever. Stay bare, stripped from your physical protectants, no skin to draw on, no hair to soak. Who will we be once the sun has ran it's course? Come equinox, will we remember who we were? We may never know of all the shapes we had, unless we take note of our dreams. And if we do, maybe some day we will find home within us.
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