Grit

He was officially dazed in the mix of languages he spoke. But he is wiser than the time of the mind, he is larger than the frame of the sight. He had cut threads of self-inflicting tangle of worries and doubts. He unraveled gracefully in the magic touches here and there. He shifted then into his higher self. He didn’t force, he just pushed accompanying the melodious persistence of the drums. Somewhere between ten thousand hours and ten thousand miles, some doors were shut and some windows displayed its salute wide and welcoming. He sang the hymns of his mighty heroes until he slept. Dreamless, he slept at night. And in the morning light and fog, he awoke fresh and dewy and alive among the greens.

He is wiser than the time of the mind, he is larger than the frame of the sight.