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Before the Metanoia, there was a Meadow
When I was little, I could close my eyes and see the world.
From a bustling street to a lonesome meadow:
The daisies surrounded my feet as they danced with the breeze;
The frozen mist of the morning air;
The hovering deciduous trees watching over me.
When I was little, I could close my eyes and sense the world.
From a crowded breakfast to a serine scene:
The messy growing grass, verdant as the taste of a frond;
The scent of the bitter refreshing air, clearer than visible light;
The flowers, soft as a pillow filled with feathers.
When I was little, I could close my eyes and feel the world.
From the drubbing sun to the mellow clearing:
The absence of heat tickling beneath my chubby skin;
The silky embrace of the moist brown dirt around my toes;
The gentle vibration of purity in the air.
When I was little, I could close my eyes and hear the world.
From the chatter of the city, to the silence of the view:
The rustling leaves like wind pipes on a creaky porch;
The used earth moving like the sound of sequoias in the night;
The golden birds chipping in octaves on their way south.
When I was little, I could close my eyes and see the world.
From an urban apartment to a secluded meadow:
The glistening forest fading like imagination growing up;
The view of two worlds from each eye departing;
The sense of being mortal in a mind that couldn’t die.
Even in the crossroads of life as I grow up,
I can still see the daisies dancing around my feet,
Smell the bitter air as it enters my lungs,
Feel the gentle vibration of purity,
And hear the chirping birds as they fly towards the south.

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Just like riding a bike, the memories are always there, it just takes something to bring them back.