Sensitive to a thought...
Sensitive to a touch...
Sensitive to a look...
Sensitive... to words.
Living is sensitive. And in its sensitive perception images are configured, secrets are established, memories are kept… in hiding places and possibilities are stored. Many possibilities.
It is sensitive to its order, to the order that marks an idea, which says that the year languishes. Also that the day dawns.
It becomes sensitive to the own abilities that the being establishes with its environment, with its successes, with its failures... And although he knows -intelligently- that all this is... fictitious, he maintains it as a way of having a kingdom: the kingdom of the year, the kingdom of the day, the kingdom of the month, the kingdom of shopping, the kingdom of rest, the kingdom of vigil...; the kingdom of "I like", the kingdom of "I do not like", the kingdom of jealousy, the kingdom of suspicion... Oh!...
If one demands with sensitivity... from the perspective of sensitivity, our kingdom –certainly- it is not of this world.
It is not disposable, of getting tangled up, disentangle, fraying and progressively wrinkling and… trying and trying, as if luck came like this.
But it seems that it is not so easy to give up this kingdom.
The Praying Sense shows us that, when we come to the call, our feelings, our sen-sations, our sen-sitivity... is detached from the possessive kingdom, the demanding kingdom, the kingdom built to be expired; to be passion of one night and confusion next day.
Eternity has not manifested itself, to be dislocated in frivolity.
It is rather snowy velvet of colours; it is rather... cravings without demands, but eager to amplify its feelings.
The luminaries have not been gestated to count them, to see how they travel, how they escape, how they hide themselves. Rather they are there as infinite claim, and by probing our sensibilities we become exquisite!, demandingly universal!, lovingly deep!
Deterioration that consumes is not of Mystery. It is not... -it is not- of the nature of Mysterious Creation, love or loves of the moment, which only go to exhaustion.
Oh!...
Every drop of potential love, wasted, is a universe that collapses. And that is felt. That is sensibly noticeable.
A kiss to the air, without importance... is one less star.
This is the sensitivity demand. So immaculate is the sensitivity meticulously created by Great Weaver of Creations, thorough in every stitch that ran the thread, without hurting, to make a weft of, permanent surprises.
Oh! And the great Weaver was... is... and continues!... tireless in his backstitching...
Suggesting paths, clarifying virtues, providing coincidences, giving chances.
No! You cannot hurt so subtle weft. And if silk is the recollection of chrysalis that breeds the dream of its flight, alas!..., the weft of the Divine weaver is so subtly transparent... that it can only be perceived by breath.
Yes: when we are encouraged by the attraction of beauty. When we are encouraged by the true sigh. "True".
Yes! We are wrapped, connected; yes. We are sensitively cared for. And it is necessary to feel it, to perceive it. It is there, on the thresholds of sunrise, of sunset...; of the rooster’s crowing, of the tweet of birds...
No, do not make a sensitive kidnapping, and disconnect from... the Great Weave, and become retractable and -oh!- abrupt and heavy.
Rather..., if the reprimand to stop being king is avoided!, discovering that this kingdom is not -"is not"- our place... That this place has been manufactured in a vindictive, defiant kidnapping, programmed to be born, to grow and die...
While an Eternity coats our presence!... the being insists on being consumed. And it is called "uninhibited." But he finds it difficult to disinhibit himself from the anchors he creates, due to his prejudices, his norms...
The Mysterious Creation is brave! It is not a cowardly retraction of sensations! The Creation of the living is adventure; it is the real adventure of the Good Venture!... where it always dawns.
Oh!... What misfortune of those who are exhausted in their sanity; in their sanity that binds, that knots, while beating incessantly!... the uninhibited Creative reality, which asks you for courage!... based on the sensitivity you have been given. Based on the words that have created you. Based on the infinite Universe in which you are continuously gestated.
And that sensitivity makes of being a YES. A Yes of creative abilities, a Yes of sincere abilities; that knows... -knows, not because of knowledge but because of feelings- not to get caught in the domains of days, moments, memories or properties.
Oh! What a terror, given the Creator's sensibility, to get sensitive to the exhausted eagerness to possess, to experiment based on knowledge and in the opportunity, as if life were on sale, and there were... and there were a great rush to consume… just in case is going to run out!
Does the Creative sensibility run out?
Its bravery is infinite. Its sublime fabric is indestructible. And at the same time it is so soft!... that when the being clings to its positions, when it classifies its life by profits, by opportunities, by sales, by chances, that subtle fragrance becomes distant.
Already... the saying goes: "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”. Property, stockpiling, assault, having, getting, achieving!, is worth more than seeing and feeling birds flying.
It seems the being doesn’t want… -of course, he does not want because he knows that it is not “wanting”- what Creation demands: it demands the reflection of Infinite Love that it is giving to live.
Of course! He does not want. He doesn't want to, because he can't own it. And the being prefers to retire... and, in apparent liberation, to want -freely?- what is "an occasion", and have it as a trophy, as "legitimate possession."
Alas!... But the Creator Fabric, of subtle invisible transparency, is not suitable to that manoeuvre.
And perhaps the being, not seeing that "bird in his hand", he dares not to fly with those that pass by and prefers to crawl in his instincts, which he doesn’t know how to sublimate, because of his demand.
They call, they call to pray towards the exquisite.
They call to pray towards the sensitive. So that the sensual becomes spiral, so sensitive! That in an instant rapture it detaches itself from its clinging and dying power, and aspires to fly... in the subtle fragrance of the infinite sky.
Become sensitive plumage that can only be caressed by air; which is only adorned by the cloud that does not prevent it.
And towards that sensitive sense... we dare to the courage of living, without possessions but willing, knowing ourselves fabric of Creation.
The echo makes us flight... and it is imprinted in our soul. So whenever it is a question of giving up the flight, the echo demands us… and does not let us hold on to what we want. And make us subtle lovers of the Eternal Lover. And so, to be able to replicate in the low and subtle flight, like the pelican, which barely... barely touches the water with its feathers. It knows its food is there, but its breath is in the air.
Its breath of life is not in it’s the dive. Its breath of life is in the breeze that welcomes it. And with a soft flapping, retreats, rises, falls... diluting in the afternoon... to celebrate the stars.
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