This is Not Goodbye to the Prophetic

Masada, Israel

This is not goodbye to the prophetic.

It lives. In every breath you take when the next season enters and gently releases the doors behind it. It thrives. Upon the empty gaps between the lines of texts, of black and whites, of heavy textbooks, between thin papers, and scratches and calendars. It pounds. Against the walls of your heart when you filter wisdom. It speaks. If it ought to be liberated to another's story. It remembers redemption. It doesn't forget. It now sees in a blur, distinguishes in a rush, dominates occupation. The prophetic beats louder when time seems slipping away. 

This is not goodbye to the prophetic. But this is not forcibly embracing it either. This is co-habitually existing with it. This is the rest after apology; the settle after confusion. This is befriending it. Getting to know it. This is sticking to your chair, keeping silent with it side by side, without the quarrel nor the insinuation nor duress. This is living at peace with it. With a hope that one day, maybe one day you'd rekindle a fire that was always there.