You call out to me. The only true other can be you, for all others are my thought, my idea, my conception. When I truly listen, that is, listen not through myself but without myself, you call out to me from everything that is.

The vulnerable woman, wounded in body and soul, who comes to one with hope, is you. In her beauty is your beauty, in her brokenness is your brokenness, in her tears is the tenderness that you have for us all.

The fear of uncertainty, of being lost in a world that is so fixed and concrete, is you. It is your voice that calls through it, calls those without an anchor in this world, to a world where there is no place for certainty, no need for structures.

The oppressive city, with its noise, its artificial structures, crying out for beauty, for tranquility, is you, in the very awareness of its oppression. You lie in the knowledge that all those walking on its street have, of its ugliness. They seek another land, another world, another paradise, and that is you.

The joy of being, a joy without reason, joy that is part of the isness of being, is you.

Most of all, nature, truly beautiful, loving, like a mother, is you.

There is nothing except you, if one truly listens.

And there can be nothing else, except love, between two real persons. There can be nothing but ignorance, between two alienated beings, lost in their conceptions of the universe, never listening to it.

Last night you were infinitely close. As you are this morning.

~ by tdcatss on January 11, 2018.

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