A bedtime story.
Once upon a time ... ..one. Away from the hustle and bustle of noise, she lived in a green meadow with a lake and a magical forest nearby. She played with wolves and grew flowers, many flowers. They were of different types, ordinary and very rare. She had a garden and a wicker wicker of living vines. The vine grew straight out of the ground, curling in a bizarre way and forming a support for the swing, and the seat and back itself formed a living net of various herbs and stems, firmly holding it in the moments of swaying.
She prepared the Earth for each season, checking the streams for compliance with the season, directing and leveling them if they were bent. Sometimes the streams were very elastic and dense, and then he appeared and whispered something in her ear to her ear, framing her hands with hers. Threads resisted.
She received travelers, wandering, messengers, transmitting and carrying messages, often sent them herself. Travelers often gathered in her meadow and laid out their knapsacks. Someone had small nodules, someone had ordinary bags, and there were also those who brought whole bags on their shoulders.They dismantled them, laying out the contents on the grass, exchanging part of their luggage, agreeing on something and nodding bearded heads. There were young, with pink cheeks, and their eyes were burning, there were old men without age and their eyes were attentive and soft, and their eyes penetrated the very essence of the universe. They came and disappeared, each leaving in his own direction, intertwining patterns of paths and roads. Sometimes she sat down with one of them, they looked at each other, exchanging thought forms, talking quietly, not saying a single word out loud, and then drawing charcoal cards.
She had a crystal ball. He always moved and changed colors and shades, and different forms inside him flowed into one another. He was a perpetual motion. Gus also caught fire, Lightened and darkened, moving now smoothly and fluidly, then abruptly, tornly, twitched. She looked into him and knew all the relationships that existed in the universe. She wove the silk threads of events there, harmonizing them in a smooth openwork pattern. Sometimes the threads of the pattern were tangled, torn, and then, frowning slightly, she pulled them out to replace them with new ones. And the ball without the missing strings again changed its color and movement.She knew every moment when it was necessary to weave one or another thread, but the ball did not know it and began to worry and vibrate, when it seemed to him that there was no thread for too long. She knew that the threads needed to be prepared, and the patterns to plan. It is impossible to put a simple thread into a pattern that weaves a ball, tying it with knots. Threads need to pick up. First you need to find the right butterfly, which will weave the threads of the desired thickness and texture, wait until the caterpillar matures, collect the threads, turning them, barely touching them, so as not to damage the caterpillar, and not to break its precious gift. Threads need to be selected, interweaving so that they complement, or gradually change the course of the pattern. Such it was necessary to weave particularly thin. At these moments of movement, her movements became precise and light, and her breathing became elusive, one that the feather brought to her lips did not move. Then, in moments of particularly fine work, he appeared and whispered words in her ear, creating an algorithm of movements. She whispered, barely perceptibly moving his lips. Creating word-kisses ..
And then they watched together, as the pattern interlaced by her came to life and began to move along with the ball, repeating its rhythm and controlling its movements.
So it was, is and will be. Beyond time. Outside space. In the Flow of Eternity and Love.