the unnameable thing that the mystery of love hints at:
this is love itself, too simple to be put in words
at the beginning of beginnings, before time knew us
and here, where i am drowning in the meanings
where the numbers portend some vague reality
here is love unknowable except one completely lets go
into the void to release all angled preconceptions
for i have looked into too many mirrors passing by
that i have lost all imagination of what i could be
and love, it waits for me to find the misty trail
where time means less than a whisper that surely knows

We believe that the death of Christ is just that point in history at which something absolutely unimaginable from outside shows through into our own world. And if we cannot picture even the atoms of which our own world is built, of course we are not going to be able to picture this. Indeed, if we found that we could fully understand it, that very fact would show it was not what it professes to be—the inconceivable, the uncreated, the thing from beyond nature, striking down into nature like lightning. You may ask what good it will be to us if we do not understand it. But that is easily answered. A man can eat his dinner without understanding exactly how food nourishes him. A man can accept what Christ has done without knowing how it works: indeed, he certainly would not know how it works until he has accepted it.

the age that emerges must declare: first, do no harm
what happens when the world systemically starts going your way?
in the transition, it is an alchemy that turns an age over
we will forget more than we learned, and return to innocence
the spirit to be victorious inside us, it becomes complete
and time hints at the secret: we cannot help but always change
zero in on what cannot help but alter every spoken world
dreaming of the actions that have no consequence, into the void
we have it: iron changes into gold when mixed with blood

Yes, time and chance happen to us all. Destiny often rides on a small miscue that directs a person one foot from where he would have stood before. And one may find destiny may rely more on what we lose than what we gain. All the while you pine for some small token of childhood (irreplaceable, of course), the way you compensate for the loss moves the gears significantly on their course. One wonders about control, for the things we do not notice add up to more than a butterfly effect upon our futures. But perhaps what Gandhi told us makes sense here: what we do is insignificant, but it is very important that we do it. For all we may be able to achieve is to hold on, sometimes for dear life. Or let go, and see where the wind really goes.

Antonio Puri: Revisiting Sarnath 1

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We measure things in millions, now, and give no second glance to the number. But we do not comprehend what it really might be. One can say he can spend a million dollars, but he does not dole it out one dollar at a time; it is in sizable chunks, and perhaps, after it is all gone, he never actually experienced all that such a number could mean. We are overloaded by these numbers; billions are even worse. A million, one might, through patience, absorb — a billion, though, no human being ever truly held this number in his head. Ever. He may have held the ten digits that represent it, but that number is beyond this mortal brain to process. And these numbers are said so many times, that one has no opportunity to truly wrap one’s cognitive facilities around them. One should respect such numbers. They are more than the stars you can see in the sky with the naked eye, even out in the deepest country field — when the whole of night is ablaze with the punctuation of God.

If what they do does not make you destitute, or in some way derail your life: if all they can do is take your money, then they cannot take a thing away from you that you do not give them: for all of what you truly possess, what is truly yours — your soul, your humanity — this is yours, and only yours, to keep or waste, by what you decide to be and do when you are wronged. This is the love of God, that He made it so that the material things are only as valuable as how much you have decided your treasure is to be these things; where your treasure is, there your heart shall be also, the good book says. When you decide that you will not be one iota less kind to someone else because of something evil done unto you, this is treasure indeed. Gold cannot buy such graces, and sometimes, we lose a little material to gain meaning we might never have received had we not so lost.

weaves of breezes shape the sense of time flowing as invisible fabrics across my skin
we, as harbingers of a better day: inhale the darkness and calculations, exhaling light
with every kick of the psyche, to break any glass ceiling of dreaming, of imagination
shifting through the planes of existence as if the angels gave you momentary wings
hero after hero have conquered the skies, only to long for a home to touch down to
thus the challenge: to love in all might without one need that tomorrow should come
i return to myself, having been scattered by many dreams, by the dream of the world
the wind of the waking world i find quickly familiar, to wonder, where have i been?
i have dreamed i did heroic things, fought the beast at the dark side of strange skies
and when God found me, i did not wrestle; but removed my shoes, for it is holy ground
the breezes now to escape my touch, and time to continue as time is bent on changing
and all i could think of this sinner: my Lord, my Lord, why did you not abandon me?

I am a dream of the dust, and to dust I shall return, upon its waking. For a few moments the universe gets to peer at itself through these eyes of mine, for some scant instances the universe gets to wonder about what it might be. It is an amazing thing, ephemeral. Even if it happens the billions of times that it does, one must not lose sight of its miracle. For never again will this thing I call “I” ever appear on this blue dot in the cosmos. Life is an experiment in uniqueness: grouped together as similar are the millions, but each one is exquisitely its own. God has blessed us all to the point where we no longer notice the wonder of it all. I think it part of the plan. And those who consider why may glimpse the nature of love.

Max Ernst: Birth of a Galaxy

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