Today was a day of old, twisted into the seconds of the clock like so many before it. Should that cause me bliss of contentment or fury of complacency? I am pleased that I have been blessed to take another breath, another dance, another step and yet I am weary of stale air and silent ballrooms. I wonder, does anyone know what I mean? does anyone understand this feeling but I? I fear the hand of God looms above me ready to smite, for I am not joyful or perhaps because I have failed to bury the seed of this marvelous fruit so that it might grow and bloom. Perplexing isn't it? uncertainty is the petri-dish of discontent, the fungi of misery. Shall I push beyond this preponderance and say; tomorrow will be a day unlike the one before it. A gift that shall not remain packaged, tossed in the corner of a dark closet, gathering dust...dare I be so bold as to profess, I this simpleton, who knows too well the mundane, shall venture out into exploration and feast on the secrets of life, the subtle fruit of living. I, mother, wife, woman, shall bloom like no flower before me, shall grab these days of life that remain and breathe as though every breath counted for something greater. Dance as though I ruled the stage, live as though life depended on it...for indeed, life is nothing if not for the pleasure of living.
Deo Volente
August 24, 2010
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