Wings of blue were the first signs. A messenger of Things to become. Unrecognized, at first, but then reveals the key to the first path that opens up a world.
Sometimes the heart itself is a wild thing. Gone feral and hungry. Hunter and hunted. Sometimes it is necessary to drop on all fours and run beneath the night sky, between the towering whispering trees. Go on, love anyway.
I'm telling you. The time between the first of December and New Year is a time of magic, a time when the veils are thin between worlds and between impossibilities. December is a month when all bets are off.
It is likely because the year itself is dying, and also bracing for rebirth. It is a time of labour pains and passing-throughs. A time when the last sigh is breathed out, and a time when the first cry is released.
When flowers bloom despite the bitter winter cold and the long darkness of the north.
When fresh cold water bursts forth from the ground amidst the flaming heat of the south.
When a heart discovers its last reserve of courage, and spends it on a mad quest.
Do not get too lost in the many layers of default that have grown into towers of tradition during this time. Give yourself a moment to be still, and to listen, and to feel.
Nothing is too late. No one is too old. There is always a choice. There is always a chance.
Know your heart. Be brave. Do something. Love anyway.
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