It is okay, that the ramblings of an age old mystic, instill in you immense wonder. That they enthrall you even after centuries of their wordster's passing. Immortality never looked so profound and mesmerizing. It is the same wonder, the same intense fire that is built in you, not all at once, but slowly, igniting your soul inch by inch; that you feel when you look to the night sky and see the stars bloom across its entirety the more you look.

Words that will get you drunk, dancing around bonfires, singing songs under the moonlight in desert sands. If this is the lull of the word wine, there is no other drink that will make me soar. Of jasmine scents and oil lamps, of tales of that land of visions, this is addiction to the magic of matured words.

I'd leap gladly, right into the arms of this heady feeling and I would not return. Take me to those lands you spoke of, Rumi, where I'm one with everything and everything is me. To the lands, where my soul is from, so that this intermediary life I am illusioned to be living shatters with the truth of the universe. Take me.