As limitless as the universe can be, so are we made as such. In spirit, our soul multiplied at it’s chances to expand, and grow beyond our own understanding, just the same as we have the capacity, to evolve, not to succumb to to norm, of simply being. It is extensive work, yet not labor to expand our inner intuition as it is our responsibility to understand who we are, and our responsibility to maintain a sane connection in this expansive realm of greater possibility improvement, to progress, limitless.
So as we the limitless compact universality soul, of the self inner construct of intuitive particle say, we are in conjunction with it’s constructiveness to our subconscious inner turmoil in a complex veritable world of evolving specialty. The rest, the connect, in secret to, and with self, as to not freeze in this turmoil-ed world, but to consciously exist, in the real us, not depending on the manipulation of a dying diseased society of impudent souls to lead us through ignorance, and laziness. This Samarkand, and dis association of self, and the usual disconnect is but the start of a self destructive journey well away, from any succeeding potentiality, progressive construct. As the wave, we send out into the world, and they to will disseminate, the very same sound, which we can create, when the time will come in which we will agree, and grow into agreement, in that on that special day we will, from our window emitt this very same wave into space, so as it would travel, sent by those who consciously perceive to see, and send, I will send on that special day. Perhaps when we close our eye’s we can see them, or as individuals, who wait for us, as we journey on to find, without looking, yet we are connected, which eventually will lead us into one another, either at that time, or yet another time. Seeing then the comfort, of consistency in our mare mirror. There are those, who extend their hand, which we should grasp to free from, their response, in that only a shade of purity, we will be given to give, now as we look forward to heal, in this passive owing of our self to calm, and to shed pleasantry. The obtuse bird, is at hand in the morning, as the Sun sing, with it’s brilliant ambiance to the worlds, when we awaken, and the birds interpret the seasons. All of the dept of time fractions, how close, and in multiples, how far it seems. The light, is here there are no struggles, except, the green tree, who cannot grow, who fears the winter, Oh how I shed the tears. That star above me, is within me, oh what could it be, which side is brightest, as the heat even reaches the seeds from a distance. In this peace, at this time, in this compact me, deep within our subconscious, let us find, that the smallest particle, and when it expands, let it take us where it will, for it is our path maker, our lead, through the murkiness of the hallway’s imparted by the broken seams. Today I was there, as I imagined it, it is. The tiniest of a feather when the doves flap their wing, we miss. But there, and now they are, as a line in the horizon, about to appear.