A Star is Born

Sometimes
The Sun and Moon
collide
so that
a star
can be
born
~MG~

Stars are made when particles are compressed, pushed together, causing chemical reactions and increasing temperatures as kinetic energy escalates. It can be a violent process where the energy pushes against each other with so much force that they are magnetically pulled together. Gravity keeps the pressure on, staying grounded generates more and more heat. The young star gets hotter, brighter, and reaches an intensity where eventually they fuse together, releasing massive amounts of energy. (Information here)

Voila, a star is born.

The sun and the moon collided — our physical selves, polar opposites on the surface — so that a star could be born.

That star is the love that exploded out of us pushing against each other after being brought together. That star, is soul.

It was always about soul, darling.

Because soul.

M.G.

(Inspirational music, click here)

Fight

I don’t want someone to
fight for me.

I don’t want someone to
fight against me.

I want someone to
fight
with
me.

If that’s too much to ask,
then I’ll fight alone regardless.

I didn’t get this far
to make it
just here.


I didn’t get this far
by waiting around to prove my worth.

No,
I know what it’s like to be tired.

I know what exhaustion feels like.

I know what it’s like to want to give up.

But,

I also know what it’s like
to have no choice but to keep going.

And that,
m’dear,
is all I know.

So darling,
keep going.

With or without me.

I made it,
so can you.

Prove me right.

I dare you.

 

MG

Have You Seen Her Write?

Have you ever seen her write? 

Have you ever just sat, and watched her surrender as the paper devoured her soul, as the pen carved into the unmarked linings of reproduced trees?

I have. I’ve seen her write. I’ve fallen asleep to the image of her etching patches of her soul into her diary. I’ve typed up essays to the company of her writing soundlessly behind me. I’ve found myself in a cafe, sipping lattes to the gentle glaze of her pen romancing paper.

She would write, and rewrite, and write, and rewrite, until she was satisfied with what had manifested onto the sheet tightly gripped in her hand. Then, she would place it, ever so gently, onto the table, and read the words from a slight distance. The words, the reflections of truth coming from the depths of her soul. Words of wisdom echoing the truth of what she may or may not have consciously recognised.

But she always loved what she wrote. Always.

And through writing, she always, always loved.

That’s all I wanted, to be a part of that, to be a part of the writing. To watch, to embrace, to collaborate.

To write, and to love.

Ever so silently, in the corner, across the table, under the sheets. 

I wanted to write with her.

And I wanted her to write with me.

To write,
is to love.

To be writing,
is to be love.

~M.G.~