Her voice is in the night. And it
comes in many ways.
There is the call of love lost, of love never known, and of love forgotten.
Each is more heart rending than the last. There is the cry of those
left behind. These she has pity on, gently consoling in her cold embrace.
For she is not of the happy world, the world of lights. No, rather she
is within shadow - lurking where danger lies in wait, carousing in the
drunken darkness, prowling where real life begins and the shell of mock-beatitude
She is the enemy of ignorance.
For only in the dark, with no eyes to see, is her beauty truly unveiled.
She comes slightly, as a breeze, a whole body caress, with no words
but the unspoken wind. Her touch is deep, in that it goes beyond flesh,
beyond description.... a nameless ecstasy, finite and infinite.
She is the companion of loneliness.
The happy world dances around her, the world of lights acknowledges
her with its defiance. These are not for her. For her the solitary wonder,
the gaze of longing, the restless spirit. For her the soul encased in
flesh, and, knowing this, yet dares to strive towards her chilling beauty.
For endless fire burns cold in a vacuum, and motion is illusion to the
infinite. Yet these serve as the signposts to her vast beauty.
She is the silence of shadows.
Each star is her heart, burning and shedding light across infinity.
Yet, each star beckons to us, reminding us of how small and large we
are simultaneously. Each star is the center of infinity, by its own
sovereign right. Every one part of the whole which encompasses her vast
domain, for we reside within her - the living sky.
She is the cacophony of a whisper.
Hers is the voice of inspiration, the whispered nudge which guides us
at times to unique discoveries, chances taken and deeds of spontaneity.
Hers is the voice of fire, that which tears through us in quiet times
with all consuming passion. Hers is the beat of the heart, the rushing
of blood and the song of spirit raised in mindless ululation to that
which is greater than what we know.
She is the symphony of being.
We are but movements of her essence. Intertwining melodies drifting
within an endless chorale. She is the mad conductor, meshing the music
of our lives into sounds of grandeur. For none know when the strain
of a dirge shall become an ecstatic crescendo, or a requiem the song
of a Phoenix. Or the opposite. For she knows the greatest beauty can
oftentimes be found in sorrow. The heart sings when it bleeds.
She is the mutability of constants.
Ever fluid, she dances. Defying comprehension. Her masques are legion,
her illusions many. For that is the art of her dance. To entwine us
all in our respective visions. To dare us to depart from the world of
lights, to live our feelings, to express our hearts. Each vision adds
colour to her body, the panorama of existence we call Life.
She is the dream of awareness, and the sleep of waking. The rainbow
floating gracefully, hovering gently within the night. The light of
the dark, illumining the depth of shade. The voice which is not heard,
the words not spoken, only felt.
She is that which is.
The resonant beauty inherent in all things.