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The Harvest

The Harvest

Lay Dormant and watch. Enter the discreet recesses of the mind, where tangible shortcomings fray. It’s a journey that one can return to- ever so often when the moon eclipses and that relapse rolls on through- and you become you. Your whereabouts are of no concern; they have no bearing on your soul;- that everlasting soul beyond a fragile vessel that insists it is real.

A dreamer may dream himself into a world that the mundane shall never maim, and this is his gift-his harvest. The fruits of his labor are vivid flashes of untouchable joy, and never ending ecstasy; woven together in quick past life memories; as so one can reap what he has sewn by the tidings he has known.

Who knows where the dreamlike state ends. Are the boundaries clearly mapped out, or do they appear and disappear like some irrefutable ghost? A sprawling of nighttime blankets a violet sky fast, when September creeps in to welcome you into her arms of abundant rapture. Smell it, -taste it,- her earthly gifts to enliven your senses. Know that as the trees groan and the pumpkins grow, that you yourself are swept into Autumn winds, a changed being from your journey in those dreams. Become that shadow, and embrace that hollowness that can only point you to the reality that you are as light as that leaf and apparition;-that marmalade sunset far reaching into the eternalness that only this season can sing.

Let it sing and let it ring-all old things and new things too. Shift and turn to the warming view. Simmer in sweetness, and let the old dregs fall dead.

They are not you-and you are not them.

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