The intuitive pushes and reassuring synchronicities have calmly, carefully come back to me; a gentle invitation for personal growth. With smooth tumbled aventurine and rose quartz held against my chest, I reap the rewards of universal, unconditional love, and abundant opportunity. Chosen through loving, intentional divination, I separated them from the other stones I cherish deeply, but do not need today. Once again I am reminded of the strength I carry within - that I am a soul with a body, not a body with a soul.

Very little makes me feel softer than the warm glow of candlelight; though this incident of loveliness will be followed by an inexorable decline - a humbling reminder that these moments are fleeting. I will neglect the idea that a mere gentle breeze holds the power to extinguish the light that keeps me feeling beautifully tender - I will not think about how a candle simply cannot burn forever.

Tender, outstretched hands — a gentle invitation for the touch of acceptance, of which I have waited patiently for. I now not only hear affirmations of growth; I feel them too. Through the blessings of beautiful opportunities, I have grown fruitful, which I pay for in eternal gratitude. I seep into the earth, the trees, wind and sun, and slowly slip into a warm oblivion.

Having unlearnt compromise, she is released from the burden of consideration of sin. The veil has been lifted and she now holds the gentle, irresistible charm of an enchantress. Stretch marks decorating her thighs, the personal marks her body carries represent stories that she will never tell, a symbol of the binding of her body and soul. A deep beauty of which will remain faithful to her over time; she is evergreen.

I have long craved the embrace of a noble figure; to be tenderly kindled by radiant, warm hands to a gentle bloom. Throughout my incessant yearning for more, my search has grown static. I maintain a mild position with perfect execution as I cling to soft, old feelings that can only be found within my own nostalgia. Replaying a pure melody from memory, the small sections in which I cannot recall nor predict a resembling sound invoke a deep sourness; a resentment toward the newly forgotten patches. This steady development is out of my hands, and its inevitability will not shift from my resistance.

Time has generated an unfamiliarity with this space, and admittedly, I have not returned out of a diminished need. My bond with these four walls has been reduced to that of a tourist visiting foreign sacred spaces, seeking enlightenment in places where they cannot return.

The pictures painted on old white walls from light through stained glass no longer tell me a story; I only see pretty shapes, of which are reminiscent of a conventional child-like quality, where I can recognise alluring images, but do not understand what they represent just yet. This cathedral holds no new chapters for me.

I feel that my words of faith are composed by a ghostwriter. Although published under my name, they do not belong to me, and I can no longer claim them as my own. This journey was a marathon beginning at birth, and it’s time I stop running.

Amid the thundering exterior of redemption, and the pulsing currents encompassing repossession, I find something more gentle inside recovery.
A faint radiance, of which resembles an immersion amongst the tenderness of learning how, once again, to bloom.