Lately my thoughts ramble over the notion of wanting to be a mystic until finally stumbling across the contradiction mystics don’t tend to be goal-oriented people. Mystics allow life to roll on by without letting the heaviness of poverty weigh on them, or even if they lose a leg due to an unfortunate accident, they manage to limp along with the help of a wooden crutch made from a tree branch, little thought given to aesthetics. They take life as it comes and smile all the way to the end.
Not me though, my fussy display over aesthetics is enough to make my dog shake his head in dismay. I can’t sleep in a bedroom painted white. My bedroom walls require a pretty soft color that one would find in nature similar to the color of a peach dahlia. Warm botanical greens relax the jagged edges of my nerves and soft pinks send me into a light sleep where the night spiders linger behind the baseboard and smile at the easiness of my dreams. When comparing myself to a real mystic, I have a long row to hoe before anyone would want to lean against my shade. No, I’m just a dandelion in a mystical garden where the colors mingle naturally into a pleasant hue and remind me the aesthetics of an earth-bound life bear little resemblance to the heavenly beauty only seen by the purest heart.