Jasmine would often describe her baby as frenetic and fractious. 'She was born with a hurricane for a soul, that one,' she would say. But she said it in a loving way with that soft glow in her eyes that only a mother can have for such difficult offspring. She would rock her in the dead of night when she found it impossible to sleep and she would wear her all day long in a baby carrier so that she would be calmed by the body to body contact. She would soothe her with lullaby's and stroke her tiny back and soft hair. She would whisper sweet things in her ears and cover her with kisses. She would love the hurricane right out of that child and replace it with a sweet summer breeze because above all, she was her baby, and she loved her with a power mightier than the wind.
Vera thought for a moment about her advice. She said. "Virtues are sweet spots on a continuum that can vary position according to a particular situation. In this case, pace is the same. We are needing to go faster, yet not warp speed. Too slow is a form of cowardice, full throttle would be too quick to make the subtle alterations that will become necessary as we travel forwards into this new era. So let us push forwards on the accelerator with a steady confidence until flying at full speed feels normal and safe. Find the right pace with your heart, your intuition and your higher intelligence, for when they work in unison you the path will appear at your feet and the tools at your fingertips."
She was my angel. Because I fell for her demons first. Vowed to kill and bleed for her. I was the devil of the story. But her presence gave me a reason to want to go to heaven. How she could affect souls! It was awe-inspiring. Worth seeing. She was the one, who loved me eternally, irrevocably, and unconditionally. She had me in her thrall. She completed me. Washed away the blood of brutality off me.
Her voice was more soothing than a thousand kisses. Her touch was softer than feather. She was the proof that one could walk through hell, and still be an angel. She knew me inside and out, and still loved me for what I was. She was my guardian angel.
Love me, O my sweetheart. Give me love, make me feel safe among the viciousness of this brutal world. Shield me from the bloodthirst. I have made you my knight in shining armor; don't you agree? Keep me out of harm's way; defend me. But I shall love you, no matter what. My entire life is devoted to you, I vow. I am thy possession, and thee is my life.
I sigh, closing my leather journal and setting it (along with my pen) aside in my small, light cerulean blue satchel. The satchel has been my best friend ever since I first found it in the antique store five and a half years ago when mom and dad had given this to me as a kind of early birthday gift. It was the last thing both my parents had given to me before passing.
The leather used to be new, polished, smooth even. Now after five years of having this satchel it's finally starting to look timeworn, but it's that kind of oldish, worn out look makes it all the more appealing for me.
Only a demonetized world can give us optimal neurology, a healthy era with robotised factory and food production, protect against climate change. And though a chequer-board pattern of self-sufficient capable city and country units to give needed flexibility in pandemics isn't entirely incompatible with some form of monetization, it's a whole lot simpler to implement without it.