Focus

To see one is slaving over a desk for you, worshipping you with graphite or pen in word or picture.  To lock eyes, and just know. . .   A finger caressed down a cheek, or a hand run through the hair.  A call to an intricate meal you had no idea was coming.  A flask of attar waved under your nose, with a promise.  To be so aware of an appreciation so powerful, where there is no cause to focus on one's own sensations that have nothing to do with 'other'.  To see the tears of having been missed.  To be invited into the sweetest embrace.

A contemplation so rare in actuality.  How many of the Tuatha de Danaan sit down, and really think of this?  Or how many of the mortal flotsam that make up humanity?

For most it's fiction.  A thing of dreams.  It's in books, cinema, plays, operas, ice dances, but no part of reality.  Oh, there are exceptions, but how rare to understand the entire feeling or motivation of the instigator.   And how many instigatees care enough to truly reciprocate?  And what was the motivation of the original move?

Was it conditional?  Was something expected?  If so, that debases the moment to nothing.

So why did it all happen, it is wondered.  Payback for something too good to be true for it has not been experienced in memory?  The unconditional? Infatuation?  A desire to harness power greater than can be dreamed of?  All of the above?

I know the answer, and I instigated it.  It is not entirely honourable.  But perhaps, neither am I.  It seems I'm not above using circumstances for my better end.  Yet some things must be done, come Hell or high water; as they say.  If the boot fits. . .

The rest can be ironed out later.  As the journey toward perfection progresses. . .

As the promise and the warning previously mentioned are heeded.  As true peace is found in the knowledge that what is, is out of time and eternal, and cannot be changed.

And this time, there will be balance.  No more tryin' for Karmic vacuums.  All will be like an equilateral triangle.  No resentment, no expectations, no nothing.  One for all, and all for one; like what Alex Dumas said.  Nothing will be as it was, and all will flow without any blockages up ahead.  

If yer even 'av any idea waaat de feck Oi'm blatherin' aboyt, not dat Oi gie a flyin' shoite.