Outside speaks the voice you have forgotten. Behind the steady breath of exhaust and the murmur of city conversations is a whisper. The wind, it carries her to your cheek, sweeping aside the locks of your hair and brushing your ear. There the words slip like the caress of a feather inside your mind. Its question is soft but ever persistent; its message sweet like honeysuckle.
“Come to me,” it murmurs. “Are you brave enough?”
Am I? I want to be. My spirit howls in a lonely song, longing to receive the invitation. I look at the concrete world built around me, and I feel like a shadow. It’s no secret that I am a thought in a fabricated world. The constructs of my life are not real. My spirit knows this. It always has. In the stillness, I hear it crying for the chance to embrace its nature.
My eyes, they strive to open. To see beyond the haze of the city and its busy, busy bees. Shouts and hate and anger cloud the honking masses. A sense of urgency created by ticking hands that twitter, “Time! Time! Time!”
But there is no such thing as time. There is only now. The rest is a perception created to make us feel like we have control. My spirit is neither young nor old. It is and has been and always will be. Real truth is forever unchanging. It exists whether we acknowledge it or not. Sitting. Waiting. Whispering. A quiet chant, patient and calm. For it is, and it was, and it always will be.
Like a lapping wave, it continues its rhythmic call: “Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.”
Are you brave enough?