(a breath)

(a meeting place)

(a safe space)

Tabernaculum

(a path)

things we do in between moments
passing signals of acceptance
currents from within seeking grounding
 
the smell of fallen leaf
the taste of first bite of an apple
touch under papillary lines 
 
eyes open each time with the same curiosity
adjusting perception of the seen to known
tension between the brain knowledge
and childish discovery

each time anew 
each day intense
 
deep lines run within connecting loose ends
tracing signals to their source
 
as the gate floods
the heart opens
 
connect

Places where darkness
feeds the light

Home of Spirits
 
Space in between
the breaths

Flickering energy
igniting the power

Harnessing light
into live

 
Tightly compacted
From lives and deaths 

new heart 3.jpg

Stories from heart.

Catharsis.

 

Primordial energy pushes through the surface
of the tightened skin.

 

Moments of amnesia flooding with vivid images from the past. Colours anchored by the smell exploding within the Universe
of electric currents. Crackling against the reality
of the forgotten.

 

The spirits find escape, released into an empty shell.
Grounds breathe slowly.

 

The heart grows in love.

 

It all begins and ends in there. 

Into the muscle intuitively pumping. It continuously braves.
The thoughts, the actions, the everything. 

Path of passions, dreams and fears.
Interconnected worlds of moments and emotions.

Box registering each beat, noting and preciously storing. Treasure of living: past and future always present.

 

Temple.

Place of solitude.

Tabernaculum.

doubt quote copy.jpg

It bruises the same.

 

No colour.

No prayer. 

No statement. 

 

Can save it. 

 

It fears.

It loves.

It craves.

 

The same.

Stories from heart.

Complex.

 

With the smell of the past days. Musky scent of the dust. Moments when the glass case opens and presents collection of moth balls. Neatly tucked away in the attic of memory. 

 

I lift the lid carefully to collect the dust onto a white cotton fabric. It darkens fed by organic ink. As I move my hand along the patterns I remember stories. They lit within my heart with recognition. Response confused with the milky vail of non remembrance. I use my nail to scratch the surface. The sweat from my fingertips smudges the image. Yet it ignites something deeper.

 

I feel the warmth growing within my chest. The sound brings the vessels into live. Thumbing bass forms the roots and sends me into past. I can now recognise the sounds of the wet streets. Rain dives into the freshly formed puddles distorting reality. As the cars pass by new memory is forming. I can sense my face is damp. It collects between the folds of my life and gently trickles down.

 

The fabric is blurring with wetness. Particles float on the wet layer forming story I forgot.

 

And this one I let be...

 

Home.

Sacred space.

Tabernaculum.

The creation of the heart and hand is a thing to be loved

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