Inspiration can only come from accepting the natural order of the living. An order crucial to our walks; our core. Yet we see that the living are made to evolve. To grow. And it is in learning each stance that we start to dance through each move. Indeed, we may learn to manipulate the art of life itself.
Our dance is a ploy, for unaccustomed as we are to learn, there are times when it is in the grace of a timely pace that we move swiftly in the arms of change. But it is to the beat of the mind that we are bound. Bound to bend to the power of creation, of the rules and ties we have clasped, and the solitude in which we rose. To break is unnatural; an unknown path. And in stuttering strokes, twined tracks of fear lay camouflaged within this lighted trail of spring.
A trail of a rise. A trail we no longer bring. A change. The heart can however lie and defy what the mind already knows. And it is in defiance that the charcoal lined course signposts its way through the iron-laden fog of the diverse. The plane.
And upon this plane, in floating alongside and clearing the mist one woven strand at a time, we allow our wombs to breathe. To be accustomed to grow. And we let our hearts be nourished through the mind. A new bend. Our own.
We create and manipulate the forms that our art can take.
We decree.
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