Each new year brings with it its own ebb of resolutions, pious wishes and amendments intended to broaden the horizon and clear it of its clouds to promise a panoramic future, one that is written with a capital A.
The planetary revolution would inevitably call for others that would finally lead to the supposed path to happiness.
If you're going to be ambitious, you might as well throw yourself into the Opus Magnum, the Great Work, not to get the gold, the ringing, the material, but as a quest.
Perhaps the philosopher's stone is found rather than found; in our small daily joys, those that exist only in our soliloquies and through our senses.
The winter light between the bare branches, the sparkle in the eye before laughter, the caress of a material against the skin, the soft roughness of bark under the palm.
What if eternity were contained in the infinity of the moment?
The current world serving us the work in black, the Great Work in us is perhaps the only transformation.
Let us become infinite and living Gold, a Great Work that breathes.
The Consignment
