" There is nothing more wasted or dangerous than fearing souls. "
It said, gesturing to the bowls and plates lain out on cloth.
" Each and every one of ourselves is given a plate. On it is a feast of living, of life. The meat of experience, the spice of growing, and sweetness of peace and tranquility. We have a personal duty to culture our pallets, and to understand taste. "
It sighed as the cloth curled and the clay cracked.
" Please, do not be sad for this. You are like many. Born a thousand, and rushed through this all so fleetingly. No less important, nor any less redeemable. My dear, we sometimes are deceived by others, sometimes by ourselves. We grow far too dependent on our expectations. "
The plate in all its pieces slowly began to pull together again.
" They can tell you what to eat, they can tell you how it must taste. You can even grow blind that the plate is even there...but you must try. You must try so very, very mercifully hard to do more than speculate. You must actually reach out and taste it. "
" No one can deliver you such a gift but yourself....and I know...to exist is to welcome a hundred pains, and a thousand anxieties. But there must be more to this life for you than to starve...so please...go on now.."
