Who says we aren’t perfect. Who pulls and tugs and awakens us, fretful we need more or less or different than what we came with. Our bags packed by angels, delivered to the doorsteps of men and women tangled in their sheets and nighttime woes, lost in the land of worry.
We forget, then remember, then refuse to believe that we are beautiful. That we came whole and complete. That we are not here to be a piece of anything but the whole of everything. Even the stars.
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