Healing is the gift, not an end, but a sacred dance of self-discovery where scars become wisdom, and the alchemy of becoming unfolds.
In the tapestry of time, where threads entwine,
A whisper echoes through the corridors of the soul,
“Healing IS the gift.”
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Not in the distant land of resolved tomorrows,
Nor in the embrace of a coveted serenity,
Does the true essence of healing reside.
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Seek not the end, the predetermined conclusion,
For the magic dwells in the dance of mending,
In the rhythmic heartbeat of scars unfolding.
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In the crucible of pain, where shadows linger,
A metamorphosis transpires, unseen yet profound,
A rebirth not coerced by the hands of urgency.
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Let not the healing be a means to an end,
But an alchemy of becoming, a sacred unraveling,
Where the fractures mend with the gold of self-discovery.
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For in the crucible of vulnerability, authenticity blooms,
A fragrant bloom, resilient and unbound,
The true gift lies not in the perfection attained,
But in the imperfect symphony of becoming.
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Healing is not a transaction, a bartered exchange,
But a pilgrimage of the spirit, an inward sojourn,
Where the broken fragments coalesce into wisdom.
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In the tapestry of time, where threads entwine,
The gift unfolds in the sacred rhythm of healing,
A journey unburdened by the weight of destination,
For healing is the gift, the eternal bloom of the soul’s affirmation.
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