No longer am I tired of being

I hear the tranquil notes from the piano. Lying on the couch, with my mind in its place, next to my heart.

I look around, everything has its place, I look within: everything has its place. I’d leave, but I’d stay a little longer, I’d rejoice a little in this vibrant tranquility that overflows within me. I’d cry a little, but of joy. Joy for the moment which I allow myself to feel. So, I’ll stay a little longer because I’m afraid that the world outside will steal my moment.

Major changes are occurring within me. It’s as if an entire city is being destroyed, I see its buildings falling into ruin, being split down the middle and transformed into smoke. I breathe because I know: the buildings are the illusions in which I’ve lived. I walked through deserted homes with dead people, miming joy. I wept in gray apartments, thinking this was the essence of love. I ran in desolate nights, seeking friendship. I sat at a plastic table next to some bodies that made me think this was everything.

The buildings are the illusions in which I’ve lived and now I’m letting them fall apart. Yet to my surprise, the place left behind isn’t deserted. In the place where the buildings were, there is true life. In the place where the buildings were, something new is born, something delicate, like a river, like a spring that will water everything that will eventually grow. I feel how the buildings were hiding the eternity within me. And now, I just stay still, in the place where the buildings were. And I want to cry, but of joy.

It’s as if I encounter myself for the first time, as if I see my true self for the first time. I feel full of my soul and I rejoice. I delight in meeting You, Who are more wondrous that I could have ever imagined. I feel affection in my little soul, it’s as if my soul would lift its head a little to receive love. I am full of my soul and my soul is full of God.

Can you imagine? We’re immortal! No longer am I tired of being. Your child, O Lord. And from now on, I’ll never want to be anything other than Your child, O Lord!

Beatrice