2019.
When the concept of coincidence erodes, all that’s left is synchronicity. Life’s melody bellows and you can’t help but believe in the magic. The miracle. The softest place. The tenderness. It’s a subtle fierceness, formed. One that glows like an ember. A scalding cinder. And it burns slow, too. You can’t help but translate the language of the clouds and fall in love with the color yellow. An everlasting love affair. Dusk, for the remainder of time. The most honest, heartfelt words and honey dipped hearts become the flavor of the season and you hear songs more deeply. Feel it all, more deeply. I often wonder if I’ll tip toe off the surface of this Earth sometimes, drift right on into space’s spaciousness. To just catch a glimpse of this orchestration from a far — a bird’s eye view of these ravenous blues. The hues. It’s so true —
Nothing is a coincidence, I believe this now.
