Word vomit

Symbols and mystery. Two things that stir the soul. Subtle and elusive yet alluring for the patient and quiet heart. We drown out symbol and mystery all too readily in favor of a din that all but annihilates what is most beautiful in humanity.

Truth be told, we are little more than what we can dream, meaning that what is best in us–our drive, our potential–is guided by the most intangible of qualites. What a strange thought. A reality founded upon the most nebulous of entities. From theses phantasms proceeds all that we are and all that we are to become.

The marriage of dream and action. Who knows this sturm und drang better than the artist? For, after all, she is accustomed to congealing her thoughts into a tangible form that is more or less satisfactorily in accordance with her will. Those who sleep through life never pausing to consider how they can, for a moment at least, know what it feels like to exercise a passion that is akin to the divine. The artifice–that which is created. That which navigates the hollows of the darkest labyrinths of the soul only to emerge into the shining sun. Do not be content to sleep in the shadows. Instead, enkindle within you all that longs to be enflamed. Even if your light but flickers–still, for a moment, there is that much less darkness within this world.

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