There are only two lives lived. One, deeply drenched in disappointment. The other, wondrously enchanted. To live the enchanted one, we need the Sourceror.
Both lives start out the same.
The perfect synergy of wind and earth.
The life deeply drenched in disappointment sees differently, though.
It spirals deeper into the poisonous broth of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.
It becomes blind to beauty.
And the blindness issolates it into a deathly dark, lonely place.
Surrounded by beauty.
But boiling in the bitter sauce of ‘not enough‘.
Droplets of venom splattering from it onto everything in its proximity.
Searing nasty acidic pungency into whatever it touches.
And it spirals deeper.
Into the occultic vacuum of nothingness.
Except for one last hope.
To destroy anything that seems to have escaped disenchantment.
The wondrously enchanted life is different.
It is deviant.
Wherever it goes a trail of soft yellow and red flowers bloom in its footsteps.
Instantly brushing attraction and fascination in its path.
A field of wild flowers on green fertile soul.
Just by being.
The moguls of dissapointment’s malevolence always spilling withered spots as its dark cloud engulfs the vestige where enchantment’s impression fell.
But never the smothering cloud is so overpowering as to asphyxiate enchantment’s clue completely.
It is not a war, for battle presupposes animosity.
The enchanted unscrupulously barren of mordacity.
Delightfulness conjured in its way.
Trees budding pure white and enthralling pink efflorescence.
Drifting on the wind, to the chant of magical feathered creatures.
The enchanted always hoping its charm may beguile those brushed accidentally.
To live wondrously enchanted is a gift.
The sorcery of the Sourceror.
Who spoke existence into being.
It is the gift to see.
In every one whose eyes we meet.
Beyond the sadness.
And dissapointment’s veil.
Once, for a bitter brief moment, I too lost enchantment’s touch.
Spewing from me the venomous broth.
Its vile smell replacing flower’s perfume.
Scorching whomever came near.
The Sourceror, however, had other plans.
As (s)He always has.
For all of us.
Lifted me from dissapointment’s pit.
And let me see.
Grace and kindness.
And loving care.
Gain from loss.
Life instead of death.
I do not know why so many are overwhelmed by dissapointment’s stifling strangulation.
I do not know why the Sourceror’s sorcery has enchanted me.
I know it comes through at-one-ment.
Being grafted into our Origin’s being.
The love, happiness and peace of (s)He, flowing into my being.
And as I am being redeemed, I am being at-oned and I fervently crave more.
And it flows into me.
Transforming the enchanted into an unaware enchanter.
All of it Gift.
And in my enchantment I breathe the thirst for enchantmen’s spell to be cast on those who are suffocating.
For the life lived deeply drenched in disappointment, is no life at all.
It is destruction.
It is constricted.
For whatever was and whatever you saw, enchantment is yours.
Wherever you are.
At no price or cost.
Except the loss of desperate dissapointment’s arrest.
And that is no loss at all.