The comfort one finds in the company of another can never suffice for the pleasure one might find in stimulation of both the mind and the body whilst lying upon fleecy sheets. A book’s world is a needed escape from the sullen moods brought on by society’s momists and decathecting from primary sources of stability may allow sight of other paths of happiness. The drive to be loved be others is not easily supplanted by the peace of loving inward as inward is easily still alone, but if the heart can adapt to receiving affirmation from it’s most stable outlet, the resultant soul–more brilliantly aglow–will certainly attract beneficial company and true connections. The advantage of a fellowship of one is self-protections and guards being down-gyved, allowing connection with the most interesting person: the self. ; )


Would enchanted umbrellas lift our spirits as well as our selves? Would a spoonful of sugar lead us vacillating down? Intrepid is the soul willing to push the magic rain cane to the stars, not bound by the limits of reality’s laws. One cannot argue that dreaming the impossible is an adiaphorous aim for it is the star shooters who have realized the wins for life’s game. While I may not be able to place a God’s penny in the Creator’s hand to ensure a future of nonviolence, we were given one in a King’s dream. The power and ability to rise above our reality is in our decision to not only share visions, but to hold on with both hands as both a commitment and a gratitude for the ride. : )


The decision regarding which way to go is mine. Vatic entities may attempt to persuade me that only certain paths lead to righteous rewards, but I am the demiurge of the strokes that limn my life’s story and, as such, I am immune to pulls of hand from both benign and biggity influences. Where I go is where I *want* to go and there is no correlation between pointed directions and next steps–only coincidence–for while eyes and ears perceive, only the heart guides. ; )


As snowflakes cover that on which they alight, silence. Even when belving under the pressure of a footstep, what is heard is as muted as the world blanketed. White stanches the daily bustle of life; it is a time for reclusion and rest and reflection. A powdered branch is still a branch and not a pseud of show for while it may no longer purpose as a perch, it, with humblest roots, may still protect that which lies below.


Whether fireworks, blazonry of the sky, or sparklers, resplendence–but more shy, the flaneuse considers the reason for celebration and ponders the achievements of both herself and her gender that reflect success of similar magnitudes. Is there an amount of bright that can heal the wounds of darkness emitted by reprehensible acts? Perhaps, but while scars may last, the warm glow of light’s accolades will attract–as a silver-tongued force–and turn hearts toward better paths. : )

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