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by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when most hearts would not even feel they were touched. I have seen you try to still the quivering string only to set it into greater motion and give forth an even more mourningful strain. I've seen your attempts to loosen the string and become less sensitive. But this brough the melody of your life into cacophony and you tightened it to its created pitch. I created your sensitivity, for I needed someone to detect and interpret for others the delicate nuances of my creation. You thrill to beauty, but pay for it heavily shen you are forced to behold what sin't beautiful. You experience peacefulness at enviable heights. But you suffer discord at depths no one would care to fall to. I want to soothe the wounds you have suffered through your sensitivity, but I want to remind you that it is my special gift to you - though a costly one for you to accept fully. I can whisper to you and you will hear my promptings, I can touch you ever so lightly, and you will interpret my touch. The slightest change in wind direction you will perceive and look for my message. Your heart is sensitively soft in my hands - any indentation I make with my shaping fingers will remain and the former state will not reassert itself. You will notice that my winds are perfumed by the heather over which they pass and you will refer the fragrance to my providence. O sensitive hearts, you are my artists, my poets, my music masters, my lovers of mankind. Soothe the bruised reed with the thought that your sensitivity is an extravagant gift from me that gives itself over and over again with each transcendent dawn and each unexpected bird's song.  |
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June 11, 2000 - Updated June 26, 2006