“Come back here, you wizard! I’ll bite your cheeks off – those furnaces of rouge, those blood rubies of rabid youth!”, the wizard ran, and off I went to ensnare him with a knot.
“Come back here, you wizard! I’ll bite your cheeks off – those blushing maps of caprice, those burning coals of honeyed longing!”, the wizard hiccuped himself into a tree leaf, and off I went to seal him and bring him home with me, where I roasted him in guava marmalade and buried him in a chicken leg behind the fridge.
The price of what you want is not a price because a price does not exist.
The price of you want is merely a self-transformation for you to flourish into the greatest that you can be. And once you know what you want, you will never be able to return to where you were before you knew.
The price of what you want is to dare to be yourself unapologetically.
The price of what you want is to realize that, even in all as one, you are an individual of upmost particular value to yourself.
The price of what you want is the bravery of letting go of old detrimental patterns of thought, emotion, behaviour, and connections, shouting and bleeding, “I’ve had enough!!”, and revolutionize your ways to see yourself prosper.
The price of what you want is the courage to trample fear and look straight into the pitch black unknown unfazed.
So, come what may!
The price of what you want is your liberation from all you have ever deigned to complain about. You kindle your circumstances by way of your own reactive methods.
The price of what you want is to remember yourself.
The scent of pine oozed into my lungs like smooth melting sugar as I walked through the recently rain-bathed forest. The crisp green and earthly tones of nature suggested emotive tales of imagination, dating to, or rather pointing to a timeless memory of home where my heart swelled with blissful sweetness and emanated with self-indulging love.
I laid upon the wet pine straw; a bed once dreamt ‘mid the forest clearing. Although the late afternoon sun radiated through the nearby droplets suspending from all around, traces of storm clouds hung above the glade to shelter me with their coolness.
The sound of the dancing river to the north and the whistling mockingbirds cast the trance of a tribal enchantment, serving together as gatekeepers into the subtler realms of being. Little eyes peeked out curiously through the angles adjacent to the forest’s gleam in this in-between, desirous to know who came to drowse amidst their digs.
Blending softly in the breeze, the whispers and hushed words of the forest denizens became swirls of their resolve to welcome me. Their lulling touch reminisced about the weaving threads where wanderers and spirits met for ecstatic frolic in the fold of freedom borne by the young hearts of jolly children.