For what of this gift called life

For what of this gift called life

Grown into it we all are.

Not really understanding what it means to be alive. As a child, so through the eyes of a child we see. Some already beyond those confines see through eyes with knowledge from many a time around.

A mixture of the material, the spiritual and the divine, each we are.

Some remain as if dead stuck in the material. Enjoying that which binds and locks them to this place. Whilst others grow through, as if flowers in the spring, into new states. Some arrived already mature to grow more, from places of servitude, they decide to arrive and be. Yet each journeys’ as it perfectly should.

So divine the plan of course, that each has the free will to be in any instant in the place decided. Moving state in the next moment as easy was the present in the past. Not only the clay to be moulded, but also at the same time the potter and the wheel, we all are. Playing inside this divine music we call Life. Upon all created before we stand.

For this place given for the selection of Freedom or Bondage just is.

Grossly misunderstood, without price, inalienably yours, it just is.

The signs those that point the way, often buried by deliberate action they are. Yet still millions dance, oh such an exquisite dance right before the eyes. For no one has power to extinguish the flame eternal without beginning or end. Those that take the breath from the lung when grasped and understood.

Crushing, yet uplifting in moment exactly, the same.

The beauty of all that is, that of the out and the in, the up and down, almost crushing designed perfectly for the journey cast before.

The rest, that which cannot be expressed by the word, in the gap it resides.

The potter we all are in a world perfectly made for each need. Incredibly amazing in the each, we must decide.


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