To be sensitive is to be truly alive.
To sense, like a newborn baby,
The sacredness
Of this forever beginning moment.

To feel,
The crisp winter air,
The warmth of the sun,
The freshness of the ocean.

Each moment,
Must be met with pure curiosity,
For only those that are sensitive,
Can feel the holiness in everything.

For every child, with no exception,
Is delicately sensitive like a flower.
Continuing to bloom until told,
‘Sensitivity is weakness.’

And thus, the child begins to wilt,
The lightness of spontaneity and joy,
Replaced with the darkness
Of fear, isolation and separation.

The child, no longer in relationship
With the intimacy of this moment.
The world once so loved,
So deeply sensitive too…

Is now a place to be feared.

Maybe we are desensitised children,
Lost, scared, crying to go home.
Well home is Here, right Now,
Waiting to be felt.

But we must become sensitive again,
To embrace the beauty of our tears,
To allow our hearts to break open,
To let the unbearable pain be felt.

So, the next time someone tells you,
‘You are so sensitive’.
Say, thank you –
That is how I know…

I am truly alive.

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