Nothing shall be lost that is done for God or in obedience to Him.

– John Owen

In my soul, I have drunk of sorrow, the blue coolness that seeped through all my chest; I have tasted the emptinesses that were sharp, and those that were dull, the black tastes of those nothings. I cannot say that these were friends of mine, but I might feel that I know them well, and kept company with me in their own way — however much sensations themselves can be said to be alive. As I continue with this process life, I find that I have stopped asking why, and didn’t notice the absence, for the effect was the same whether I placed the question before me or no, that the cosmos would only answer if I myself wrote it in the ether. In fact, most of the questions now that I ask I know only my eyes will ever see, the only one who will ever care that such seeking existed.

I do not know what I expect, anymore. Things happen, I realize things, but I feel like the chapters of my life are merely copied and pasted, altering the small details of time and other minor attributes of placement; there is nothing new under the sun anymore. Is this what it is like to get old? Is this what dying is like? I know I am only half serious, but that half is deadly. I know in my heart that I prefer meaning to any pleasure, but I will search out whatever pleasures I can and take the meaning only if it happens along. This is the unreliable narrator that I am in my life; I cannot trust me. In my soul, there is a tragedy that will never be written, for the words cannot reach it. But it is there, staring at the darkness and the light, wondering that “why” it will never ask.

Hearts will break for nothing at all.

Dreams come true in the strangest ways.

Time makes no excuses, expects none.

Love can make absolutely anything priceless.

Beware if ever death winks at you.

Purpose only aims at moving objects.

Light shall shine, always believe this.

What can we boast for ourselves? That we did as we were told?

fire touched me at the edge of the horizon, lingering
spoke the angel through the flame, that apocalypses come and go
then i float outside myself, but find no enlightenment there

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

– Bob Dylan

Francis Bacon: Man with Dog

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The less you feel and the more firmly you believe, the more praiseworthy is your faith and the more it will be esteemed and appreciated; for real faith is much more than a mere opinion of man. In it we have true knowledge: in truth, we lack nothing save true faith.

What comes now? I taste the air and some strange scent colors it so, some hint of mystery whispers to me. Who is to know what the future brings? Here is wisdom: even the prophets were surprised when what they had foreseen had come to pass. Dreams can only speak in riddles, visions mix with imagination so that neither are distinct. Though sometimes, it is true that we find ourselves ready when these things arrive, unexpected or no. I am not saying to repent, for the time is at hand — this has been so for two thousand years. It is something I spy with the eye of my psyche, like a ghost yet to be born: something crouched to shake the sky when in its bounding shall leap. Perhaps it will be a small, thing, after all, but such that things will all change — if I have the flavor right of it, what tastes like change to season this world of daylight.

Things fit together, and they function; that things work at all, and that things work, sometimes, so well — I still find this an amazing thing. It is like Einstein’s realization that the most incomprehensible thing about this world is that it is comprehensible: I sit there stunned that you can actually do something, anything, the simplest thing; and that something so intricate like an integrated chip can all of its parts operate in exquisite harmony, without a thought or a care. Maybe it is part of the feeling that I am a stranger to this world, for perhaps many of us have grown accustomed to these things, take these wonders big and small for granted. One day you may turn around and see the world in a different slant, and perhaps it is a form of enlightenment: purpose may be fulfilled, however little, however mighty: it is not in vain, after all. A glimpse of what He said, so long ago — that with God, all things are possible.

“Now” does not come and go, only markers we make upon the stream.

3. transience

how memory descends into the unknown depths, into fathomless reaches
the shadow of my true self sifts through me, disintegrating into dusts of light
i become as ghostly as the hush inhaled before the sky explodes in rain
desiring here where moonbeams bloom to ignite some new stars, up, up
and the clouds gather murderously grim tonight, drifting like dark thoughts
(we wait in anticipation of apocalyptic cataclysm, or to become blind with joy)
time wanders on, changes wind and altitude, solemn as a candle, then holds
the dalliance of dawn’s first pale reaches shall color the world in minor keys
we wake from the dreaming numb and erased, tasting palimpsests of motion
moments dip into wondering and leave traces behind to collect as aromas
and nothing shall remain of us but the memory of footsteps, walking away

I am dipped below the horizon, in some pool of thought below the surface line of notions. What are dreams? Sometimes they cannot comfort you, even when their visage can you breathe life into, somewhere in the world that is real. The hole in my heart is not God-shaped, for there is evidence of such light within me, there, always, as it has been these years gone on. Perhaps it is all nothing, a glitch in the software that will bubble out and de-res into the vanishing past… I do not know. Something tells me that there will be a lifting of all this soon, in some how: I do know that even deep events must pass, even infinite inertias must move. Tonight I will sleep and dream something else. Tomorrow I will wake and walk back into the daylight.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’,
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’,
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’,
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’,
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

– Bob Dylan

Bosch: Tree-Man

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Death is the one secret that is shared by everyone.

Faith is the mystery nearest to us: a breath that can move mountains.

He who understands is often himself misunderstood.

The sound of a thought sometimes makes the heart stop to listen.

He who knows nothing is one better than he who knows it all.

If life were fair, we’d complain about the monotony.

A broken heart, in love, is learning the first words of the vocabulary.