Things, in their need to become, become what it is they need to be.
The spirit of the world only allows for certain shapes, and it directs its growing cells into the shape of their appropriate forms. A tree is what happens when tree cells pile upon each other. A circulatory system the same.
But these things, they must allow themselves to grow how their innermost beings desire them to grow. The natural world, which consumes so much (but seems to neglect a portion of the human spirit) grows naturally, and adheres to its given journeys of form*.
(Note*: It does not know the shape it will be, until it has already become it. The future is thus undefined, and time cannot hold in secret that which does not exist.
There is no fate, only form. Form is desire. Desire is the movement of life. Life is the movement through dissonance to harmony. Love is the journey through death to find life.)
What is this strange and mysterious portion of the human spirit that inspires so much deformity?
The delightful city of Halifax, the home my heart seems to have chosen for me, is becoming what it needs to be. It has it in its plans. Truth, it seems, is striking a chord in this little city, and the will of the people is protecting its spirit.
And myself?
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