There's a certain timelessness in every soul, as flawed and as ignorant and little as we all are. A beauty never whole but that is lost to itself, a beauty whose glimpses you see now and then like the sun in a grey morning between clouds, never complete and satisfactory but present nonetheless.
Images of broken lights which dance before me like a million suns, they call me on and on across the universe. Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my opened ears inciting and inviting me.
Never quite there. But always inviting. Always inciting. Always teasing. A bottomless well that you can fall into with experiential traps and sensational nightmares and dreams.
Timelessness being beautiful is also a scary prospect.
I saw mists lift like in Avalon. It stayed open for hours. I could stand there for years gaping in wonder at the beauty of its nothingness melancholy. It must have been the song you were singing. It must have been the echoes that returned from the hills. The dipping of minors and the liberation of majors. The sombre verses laying low like they were hiding from the summer's sun.