Danny James

Tag: song

468

We barely remember who or what came before this precious moment
We are choosing to be here right now
Hold on, stay inside…

This holy reality, this holy experience
Choosing to be here in…
This body, this body holding me
Be my reminder here that I am not alone in…
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal
All this pain is an illusion

Alive!

In this holy reality, in this holy experience
Choosing to be here in…
This body, this body holding me
Be my reminder here that I am not alone in…
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal
All this pain is an illusion

Twirling round with this familiar parable
Spinning, weaving round each new experience
Recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this chance to be alive and breathing
A chance to be alive and breathing

This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality
Embrace this moment, remember, we are eternal
All this pain is an illusion

Tool, Parabola

125: Patagonia

Dec 14 ’13 – There is a point in the auroral air, when, not arrived to full definition, cloud and sky are one hue dividing gradually, and the hinted at majesty unfolding pours steadily into the patient soul a satisfied resignation. Birds inform of the event by song, and flutter in the blue darkness from branch exuberantly to branch, becoming increasingly silhouette against the burgeoning light of Earths lantern approaching over the bend. The warmth of sun is felt far and wide before it spills over its gold and becomes a fixture in every eye. The clouds too declare it, now glowing pink as burning embers; with night thinning to extinction, – the magnificence inevitable. Commencing a pristine infinity, to enter upon, – an everything ahead of me. It is this in-preparation, I have recently discovered, that fulfils me to the zenith of amends, and when it settles it is time to board an escape pod, and ride the skies to Patagonia please.

104

I imagine the air over yonder fields is as crisp and health-giving as enjoyed here, and wonder if the birds that sprinkle my stage with mirth and song, inherit with abandon the skies above them thither, and I hope as much.

28

Our tide for merry-making is nearly over and mere ashes of our evening revels will tomorrow lament, while you still sit hence and fret upon your silent instrument, but longing deny your sacred brilliance, the dance that has long been bare without your fair song.