It is fall and it is lovely. The intense colours of trembling leaves, struggling, detaching, gliding and intimately kissing the ground. Moments blossom to re-write history and to reveal a kind of certainty that only the sacred is qualified to define. And as everything departs, everything also returns to a certain special place that our heart intimately knows from the beginning of time. Bittersweet existence, fragile, but immensely beautiful.
And then I looked at those dried wildflowers and roses on my table and the stack of books for a couple of minutes and I just know. They silently narrate the story.