There is a war inside you which is coming to its end. Don’t ask me about time.
It is inconsequential now. Days or decades.
Moments. Everything but eons. You do not have eons.
Did you do the things? How many of them?
Did you count them? A small joke.
No matter. Whatsoever.
You do not win or lose this war, this battle.
You are nothing but the field itself covered some decades in blooms and others in bile and blood.
See if you can do the one impossible thing.
See if you can love somebody just the way they are. Trying to influence no change, nothing aside from embracing them in all their glory, their fields of flowers, the bloodshed in their hearts and bellies.
Connection. True connection. This is the most rare of things. You think you have it? You do not. Let your blood boil with lust, marry, tarry with others in flirtation of the hint of ever new connection, dissolve unions, create new dichotomies where once you thought true connection resided within you.
Now prepare for the juice of what your flower truly has in store to expel into the rarefied air of true connection and breathe it deep.
Hello.
This is the Universe calling.
