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A brilliant flash of light.
A fire streaking across the black night.
Visible only to those with eyes that gaze up, in the compelling breath of the moment.
Remembered by more who linger in the never fading light of the
Ever magical, ever brilliant, ever loved, ever hated, ever linked mystery.
“What was that?”
We can search outside ourselves till our teeth and bone blow as sand in the wind
and every answer will fall short and the queries will continue in the black blizzard of our dust.
The storm rages on….
Many will find sanctuary from the gale and those that are scattering about
will think them mad,
for the Unscathed will be sitting in silence as the storm rages around them.
“Imbiciles!” “Freaks!” “Demons!”, the Scurriers will say.
“Lazy, worthless, ignorant!”, they continue to berate what they do not understand.
What the Scurriers, themselves, fail to understand, is that they are no different than the Unscathed, except that they have not found their silence, their stillness, their surrender.
The Scurriers can’t understand that, while the Unscathed may be in the storm, they are not of the storm. In fact, they are far away from it because when they chose to surrender and not partake in the storm, they transcended it.
Now you can see them. far above us.
They are brilliant flashes of light. A fire streaking across the black night.
Visible only to those with eyes that gaze up, in the compelling breath of the moment.

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