Your Perfect Path
You know it in your gut when it’s right.
The shoes that sing. The dress that dainties. The bed that caves you, on coldened days.
The perfect song for the perfect pain.
Exquisite reminders, that there is intentionality architectured throughout our mazed meandering.
It is as if someone dropped clues, showing us the way, providing pathed pointers.
When we follow the godsends, we find home — eventually.
The secret is in learning to wait for the whispers — surrendering to the signage.
What tugs at your heart?
What plunges past all wall and wielded shield, disarming you — void of defense?
What speaks in syllabled sonet, perfectly phrased upon lipped and lit landscapes, you want to lie in forever?
Whatever calls to you, knows you — better than you know the voice.
For we were created with clues capitalled within.
Markers made to rule — chambered chief of states.
When we want to come home, we always know what to do.
Beacons are inborn.
And just like beacons, our perfect paths have known us long before we first lie helpless — in our mother’s miracle-marvelling arms.
