The Illusionist

From the piercing eye of the hurricane of despair, we are picked up from rock-bottom by screeching winds and thrown back onto the path of the Long Slow Climb.  We pray not to lose our footing again, but sooner or later we will.  How terribly sad that most of our days are spent slaving for a cruel master:  Control, the illusionist of our day, demanding we turn our attention toward it while the World all around us constantly rings out the music of its simple beauty in the peripheral vision of our stolen moments.  A music so breathtaking that the wonder and terror of it turns our hearts into hymns, our voices to supplication, our tears to snowflakes falling featherlike.

 

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