There is a certain pace at which life makes sense just the way it is. A pace at which you can actually feel the moments.
A pace at which your cells know their true path.
A pace at which you understand why some things exist and others don’t, and why you are among the first.
A pace at which you know how and why things happen.
A pace at which you grasp the wordless definition of time, a definition given by your soul, and not by man-made mechanisms.
A pace at which your body is grateful.
A pace at which you can let go, and keep only what resembles your sacred making.
A pace at which the skin of an orange slice doesn’t break, when parted from its sisters, at which your gaze heals another human being, a pace at which all life around you acknowledges you with every step you take, a pace at which you can actually share your experience.
At which you observe the traces of life on a glass window and the traces of what was, on your heart.
At which you give no one proof of being worthy, because everyone already knows it.
At which your atoms remember when they were immaterial silence and light.