Life moves like a dancer, lithely wrapping herself around opportunity with the fluid grace of flowing time. Beckoning and teasing in ways as old as the cold void between the pulsing heat of stars.
She stirs the hunger that draws things out of hiding; squeezing dreams out of possibility. Anticipation bred of implication. Beauty in unanticipated flashes, in the light of darkened places.
I've always had a penchant for strippers so to speak. Life is like that. I've always been a bit bemused by people who are scared to look at the beauty in life that is clearly there to be seen and drink it in.
They look but with furtive glances. Stares purposefully averted, as from a beautiful book on a shelf, never opened for fear of wrinkling its pages. A compass, fixed anxiously on the mundane. Fearful of leaving the comfort of the harbor – not knowing what now lies ahead – for fear of a joy from which they cannot withdraw. A joy that may disturb the calm surface of their small pond.
Fear that they may have to carry some new vision, alone. That they may stumble under the weight of that load.
Better to not see.
So much to fear.
And all the while life beckons and whirls, flashing mysteries to be plumbed; delights to be seen; wonders to be unfolded with your fingers like the fresh petals of the first bloom in spring.