There is a dream, planted inside my heart, planted there by the world’s best gardener. In his mind is the perfect plan, every tree, every flowerbed, even every individual flower. And I just see a glimpse of it now, a trailing rose, a beautiful silver birch and some marigolds – but he sees it all, living and breathing, the way it sways, in the wind and sings in the morning. It’s already flourishing, the first shoots appearing many springs ago. The smell of the first blossoms and the whistle in the breeze have captured my heart, my soul, my all. There is more to come; tasting the first harvest, sweet and soft, watching the dance in the flowerbeds and listening to the song of the trees.
There is a vision, painted inside my heart, painted by the world’s greatest artist. Each colour, some vivid, some soft, each brush stroke, each shadow tells a story of it’s own. I only see part of it, a corner or perhaps a side and a few colours – I see the simple parts but he sees every fine detail: the shadows, the highlights, the texture, he sees it all. But even that small glimpse of colour, which I see now, inspires me, there is so much more to see.
There is a destiny, written on my heart, written by the bestselling author of all time. From the beginning of time he was inspired to write. Each poem, each prose, each thought contains a depth, an inspiration. I can only read part of it, it’s too immense to read all at once. The paragraphs and stanzas I have read have so often left me speechless, breathless.