It’s quiet, majestic. Lost, not in thought, but in the absence of it.
Something subtle happens in the upper right corner. A flicker. A thread. A taste of how life can be – elsewhere.
It has a solemn trait of perfection. Understood immediately is the idea that this partial evidence is not accompanied by any struggle or conflict. There is no opposition to it. It is a representative of a perfect venue. a utopia.
The thread vanishes, but not its memory. Like it has done so many times in the past. This time it leaves a minute speck behind. A speck that you begin to cherish. In some indescribable way it hints at the idea that what you experienced was but a lighthouse, marking the entrance to a new life.
Your attention has been stirred. In a next reverie a much longer thread becomes apparent. In future occurrences the thread becomes a string, then a rope. A rope which you can hold on to and keep yourself in close proximity to the Magic.
More and more time is spent with the rope and the feelings it brings, which supersede all thoughts of earthly riches of any kind.
Then the time comes when you spend more than half your time securely fastened to the rope. It is a day of definition. A day in which you begin leaving behind all the concerns and negativity you have lived with all your life and a day that you begin moving into your new home.
You have crossed the point of transition. For the first time you realize the uphill battle is gone, replaced by a glorious path, downhill.
From here you’ll never have to leave or forsake your path. You begin to experience the supernatural. All that is left is to discard any remains in your new house that don’t meet the standards of your new life – remains that aren’t perfect.
Those little threads . . . catch a hold of as many as you can.
Let them light your path.