We are born alone
And we die alone
At our happiest and most triumphant
We are alone
And when we at our most forlorn
When we mourn
We are alone too
These moments are when we are closest
To the heart of who we really are
Either becoming
Or going
Arriving
Departing
Heartfelt and excruciating
The clay being moulded
We journey through these moments
Best alone
Listening to the sound of our own heartbeat
Following that internal drum
Taking out the map
Smoothing out the wrinkles
It’s been back there in your pocket
The whole time
Time to start walking
The clay is being moulded
In the potters hands
But the pot understands
The strength of the clay determines
Whether it can easily be broken
I think when you realise that no one is coming to save you. That solace is an internal thing. That triumph is an internal thing.
At those pinnacle moments and in the depths of despair a wall seems to come up – maybe it is just a great big pair of angel wings – I’m not sure – but having been to both places a few times I know the feeling of being alone yet protected – loved – and hugged.
I call it holding my own hand – but yeah – maybe it’s a big pair of angel wings – why not? If this is the case I would also like my angel to look hot 😊😊 tall dark handsome – just saying 😂 have a lovely day people.
Header image is again west coast of Aust down near Smiths Beach. Amazing part of the world.
