If I hold my breath in my chest I can just barely brush up against the life which will be mine tomorrow. It's a faint outline of a brick wall I'll run my fingers against as I pass by. It's a faded coverup I can feel hanging from my elbows, but I'm not exactly sure how it will warm me, nor how my body shall inhabit it. I can see the joys of a language unfolding, of students bent and breathing, of a window that sings to me, of a tea mug that sings to me, of a hallway that calls me home. I hope to succumb to a routine of and for solely my Self. New fruit and new words.
But like de Botton claims so starkly in The Art of Travel, we bring ourselves with when we escape. Do not forget this is the most precious life you've been granted yet- and this is your era to Be. Yes the lumber in your belly with be there sometimes, and the tremor in your temples, and the tense in your jaw. Live the glimmer you watch along the edges of the stories you tell yourself when you feel proud.
The wall is ancient and sturdy, and many fingers brush the lining. The coat your brought fits your frame. You won't be cold, you are the very embodiment of the heat initiated upon action, before passion settles, when the mat has not fully been unrolled and you claim your spot on the floor.
Again, AKASHA, how wide does the toes stretch apart today? And the space between the thoughts and the universe between the eyebrows? Your seat of intuition.
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