Progress

Life is all about splits, and straddles, and proving you right just when you had decided you were wrong. It's a shot of bitter with a chaser of sweet, with the only warmth being derived from the latter and the only strength from the former; we can never taste the sweet until we have downed the bitter. The harsh, clean scent of mint competes with the gagging, cloying smell of perfumed dung - and sometimes we can't tell the difference. ("I love you" has eight letters, but so does "bullshit.")

You can't ever stop trying, even when you've half-talked yourself out. It's sad and beautiful, and like the world spins (just as it ends, it begins), we break our hearts and are summarily made whole.

The music swells to a crescendo that tugs at tear ducts and short circuits the brain. ('Tis no time to think - you must dance!) And it swirls and shimmers with a magick you'd managed to forget, even though it was always, ALWAYS there, waiting for you to use it. We're so powerful that we make ourselves weak.

We have to learn something new every single day, even when it burns like fire and you longingly wish ignorance were truly bliss. (Putting your fingers in your ears and singing doesn't make anything go away.) But we feel every ripple of every action and it makes us change. Sure, you can pretend that every thing's the same, but, as the fault line shifts, you may fall in.

So dance in the flames and breathe in the mint; smile while you cry. The magick is yours to use, arising from that shattered heart in your chest beating itself whole. Life is an exercise in stretching - in order to grow, we must believe we won't break.