porcelaineous regression
the moss grew upon the turtles back asking for nothing in return …
the turtle knew that eventually it would pull all of its limbs in for the night but at that moment it enjoyed the feeling of exhaustion ...
where could we possibly go from here? the shell holds depths of mystery that only one can understand as we push onwards. but fear can not only keep us from moving at all but simultaneously can drive us forward ... step by step we cry out into the void. it echoes back sharply. is "my" protective home but an egg shell waiting to be cracked?
or though love and nurture can it be hatched?
the moss whispered secrets the turtle could only make out if one quiets their mind ... the archaic practice of familiarizing one self with an ancient voice often drowned by the incessant chatter of the ego.
The turtle, weary, wondered: "is the moss my burden or my muse?"
"how much longer can "i" avoid walking on these egg shells? and are "my" efforts the very efforts that will end "my" mortal coil?"
a smile gleamed from the abyss,
a black hole swallowing another black hole ...
the moiré pattern illuminated a map woven from the [[The Silver Thread]] of the cosmos itself ... [[🔭🦆📇🛠🔬 ~ Serendipity Syndicate]] filed another report.
the turtle, unphased, recoiled into its own mystery,
The moss met the turtle's half slumbering eyes with tenderness growing freely around its decaying body,
the void can only ever watch,
hungry, content and smiling all the way home.