A hope, a dream, a far away place, where are the souls in which the turning of life take refuge. From where does the communication so eagerly sought, find a new home in which to blossom and bear the fruit of understanding. Alone in the mist of ignorance, the appearance takes form and is exposed by the of knowledge. The time of thought remain steadfast in it's place at the door step, will the welcoming ever come?
Entering the abode, does the shell remain the outer skin of appearance and serve to hide the occupants within. Gathering, the basis of existence solidifies and out of the storm of pleasure a new found life becomes unveiled before the eyes of deception. Exposing the essence, the chameleon changes form and texture. Coloring our world, sight returns it once again. Coming home is always a celebratory affair.
Step by step effort arises and falls in the cycle of our confusion and search. Never finding what we have hidden, the complexities of life are born. Parents take pride in the birthing and watch in delight as motion takes flight in fanciful dress, elaborate and comely, the pleasure become fulfilled. Walking the line of forgetfulness, we remember.
From sweet sorrows to calming billows of solitude, enlightenment overtakes the slumbering giant lurking and stalking us at every turn. Falling, we remain as we are. Ever changing by staying the same. Where is the upward developmental push when up is everywhere that perception becomes. There is no place like home and so there never is. The shell we carry reminds of us of days gone by, and as the days go by, so do we. Running ahead of ourselves we find what we have left behind. Leaving a trail in to the darkness, we follow in the hopes of catching even one small glimpse of our reflection. Gazing, we see the eternal reflection and fill ourselves with ourselves. Could there be anything else in which to take root and grow?