It takes the heart of a mystic to lay your bare hands on an abandoned rock, bring it home and spend several blue moons trying to carve a paradise out of prunes.
You hold that disowned wonder in your hands, right in front of your eyes, letting your soft gaze take a gentle stroll across the uneven scriptures that sing years of pilgrimage.
You let your rough but brazen fingers trace its thrashed and wounded skin that speaks of a long violent story in the most silent way.
You take the courage to find beauty in the brutality of scars and find the strength to reach for it… You reach for it, violating its existence; stealing parts of it, and keeping them for yourself.
It takes the devotion of a pilgrim to work under the amber of a dying oil lamp, toiling to find God in grit.
You let your chisel guide you through the darkness… you follow its sharp ends as they dance in all their glory.
You let the night owls sing and wolves howl, pleading with you to give up… but you don’t- you flow… you flow with the unknown to the unfound… you flow through the rocky edges and the softened carves… you flow until you are one with grace- and once you are- you are free forever!