For every soul there is a path, a road, a thoroughfare yet to be travelled. For her it was the love and passion that had called her to explore her own, the very reason she called into existence. She was called as a scout, checking the paths safety, ensuring that it truly did lead to a place of greater fondness, rather than sticking to her own well known routes. She was aware of the degree of courage such self exploration took, a pure seed of faith, a complete determination to follow the light ahead. And when her soul met the beginning of this road, regardless the challenge, her soul rose, igniting a fire within. Walking the road not for herself, yet for the good of her higher self, to make discoveries that bring health to one, to creation, to mother nature.
Her plan was simple, yet complicated. Because in her head she had thought past the challenges. Thought she was exempt from the faults in her path that would so clearly cause hault. Beginning in the far south of Sicily, she perched comfortably within the airplane, riding as if it were on sleek and perfect tracks. Moving ever onward in the hollowed space between heaven and earth, that graceful bird of silver wing. Landing upon the brightly lit tarmac, wheels kissing the italian earth with a small and joyous bounce. She longed for that moment where you take your first tread abroad from the plane, that foreboding warmth consoling with her skin, providing an everlasting solace through the remainder of her time in the airport. And at this early hour it seemed as serene as it ever is. The people around her moved with ease, quiet rivers of humanity freshly roused from their slumber. A splendid canvas for the twins of anxiety and glorious expectation, for her felt all at once in a confusing bubble of exhilaration. The anxiety within her intellect heightened from the thought of that first hault. She knew in coming back to Sicily he would be there waiting for her. Though last time she saw him, just one day in a lifetime, surrounded by others - She wanted to take him by his hand and lead him away.
That same breezy day, she let his voice soak in, his words, the way his eyes met hers and refused to turn away. Drowning in his smile. And in this moment she knew that although she wanted to be here, in Sicily, he was truly the only one she came to see. To relive. Sometimes the very medicine we seek in life is always out of reach, as was he. She knew after this she was to continue on her path. She wishes he had been her brother, then who would ask questions? Who would mind if they spent time together? Why is love treated in this dichotomous way? Does she love that person or this one? What if it wasn't "or" but "and"? Doesn't other languages, such as Greek, have many words for love to define which type? Why should she be stuck with one type. With him its isn't "eros" so maybe it is "philia" or "ludus"? All she knew for sure was that it qualified as "pragma" because it had been going on too long for it to be anything else. And as they said their farewells she saw that opening of a new path, in which her soul was to follow.
When rocks learned to flower into the light of every season, be it the brilliant song of summer or winter time, they grew to form sweet cottages, they grew with hearts of nectar and upon their roof tops were garlands of honeycomb. Her cottage nested in a mirth of grass as if to be the conjuring of a happy dream. A home of solace and sanctuary. On those Italic summer nights, she'd bring out her book of choice, currently being 'Wuthering Heights' a classic of such. And she would console in her garden, a miniature woodland of holly trees and native shrubs, each trimmed as if they were green flames. To move about them was a sort of music, a poetry that could not be spoken in words, yet is heard and calms everything she is. The book she held was several hundred white pages, each gentle to the fingertips. Upon them was the wisdom of her soul; those feelings of love channelled through great knowledge and a lifetime of meditative contemplation. In that humble ink was the liveliness of her brain, how her synapses danced as if they were young all her days. That book, it was what a person could accomplish in decades if their soul was forever as pure as a child. Sooner or later, the sunset came to the highlands as God's poetry, hues from flame to heather told in soft rolling verse. She admired this view, allowing all of what the nightfall held to reflect upon her exquisiteness. A smile of sweet perfection coaxed upon her simplicity mirroring all those humble thoughts to which the dusk brung her.
In the soft white-gold of the new day, the hues of her bedroom move from impressionist pastels to brilliant pop art. She awoke with the sun
