Third Sunday of Advent.
477
I could not write anything else yesterday. It was a strange
feeling as the worlds wanted to come out and rest on the shining white pavement
of the laptop, but my fingers did not open the gate for them and after a long
and painful attempt to break the locks and bolts the words decided to withdraw
slowly and calmly understanding that yesterday was not their day. They knew
there was no need to run, like wounded soldiers from the chasing enemy on the battlefield.
No one would come after them, they knew they were going to sleep and they hoped
that today was a day where the gates were open even before they came out from
their chambers.
There are days when writing flows and I myself am surprised about
the treasures of the relationships that words form during the secretive liaisons
of the night and their super sensitive vibes that catch fire here and there and
their ideal rationals that come and rescues them from the deepest darkest pits
and lift them up almost to heavens to be cleansed by the shining light of eternity
as if God himself would stroke their heads as little children. And they indeed
survive.
At a point, I am always amazed every single day, how
wonderful it is to be alive. Of course there is a battle every single day that
I am entrusted to win as the captain of the word of legions, where there are
loyals and rebels on the battlefield of the mind. And as I lie my head to sleep
every single night the heart of the Greatest Captain of all leaps that I indeed
survived.
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