song of a heart, a heart forged in a dream
the source of my fire is in interrupted darkness
where in the friction of today upon yesterday
fell from the sky the hope of a full moon
as the wires broke, as the ashes flew everywhere
to live as strong as the will can imagine
this stranded wolf sniffed the blood of new dawn
where the echoes broke into a deep beat
awake into the red of the city’s outer arteries
remembering the calls of far, far friends
and i carved the eldritch letters from the night
a howl that burned away the unbelieving past
a song i learned while in the depths of myself

I am small, held in a single thought, and I am never one thing or another, but constantly becoming.

I breathe in during the day, and I exhale it all at night, wondering if the dreams to come also come and go like the tide.

I have drunk of moonlight, when the pale glow poured into silent ponds, rendering stillness to the waters.

I am huge, of greater matter than the most enormous star, but in the darkness, how like nothing I am.

I leap in my dreams across the airy heights, and I walk upon the feathertop clouds — but even in my dreaming I return to earth.

I have stumbled and fallen, fallen, but I heed not gravity’s advice, and still I reach up toward infinity.

I am a cry, a whisper, a teardrop fallen into dust, and however much I change, this soul of mine keeps in the tune of “me”.

I do not know why, but I will keep hope alive. The taste of despair is perhaps bearable enough, and mayhap that I even deserve of my sins to suffer, but there comes from out of nowhere… something quite remarkable. And I cannot help but to listen to it. There shall be times, I know, when I can but hang on with the last erg of my strength, and the while, I may not know why I do it, why I do not merely give up — but there is a silence in me that understands something, something so fragile that to whisper it is to risk its fracture. This is what hope is like, I think, almost holy stuff: not some trivial side product of such and such desire, but a note in the key of a greater song, a greater logic of which it is entrusted of you to keep alive the simple meaning of some ephemeral truth. And I will realize, when the time comes, that it was never me that was keeping it alive, but that it instead was the hope that kept me alive — that made life worth living, the day worth seizing.

[On his experiences during internment by the Japanese during WWII] When I muttered “Forgive them,” I wondered how far I was being dramatic, and if I really meant it; because I looked at their faces as they stood round, taking it in turn to flog me, and their faces were hard and cruel, and some of them were evidently enjoying their cruelty. But, by the Grace of God, I saw those men not as they were, but as they had been. Once they were little children playing with their brothers and sisters — happy in their parents’ love, in those far-off days before they had been conditioned by their false nationalist ideals, and it is hard to hate little children. So I saw them not as they were, but as they were capable of becoming, redeemed by the power of Christ, and I knew that I should say “Forgive.”

Egon Schiele: Small Tree in Late Autumn

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Rapid I have moved along the byways of the world, for my time was not yet. Not so much like King David in the wilderness, before he was king, but not someone either who will come to nothing in the end, I think. I can hope. More than hope, for he who makes his future can best foretell what is to come: these the paths I blaze I know not if anyone has ever passed this way before, the road is rough and unkept. Sometimes to rest, look around me, just where I might be, not really to know until later that I had been in famous places, at times. This is the life I have chosen for myself, and I lament not that it takes me any length to achieve my destination. The journey may not be the reward at the end itself, ’tis true, but one must make delight of even a hard voyage. What else can we do? This is what life is, after all. Count it all joy.

So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There’s vultures and thieves at your back
And the storm keeps on twisting
You keep on building the lie
That you make up for all that you lack
It don’t make no difference
Escaping one last time
It’s easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees

In the arms of an angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort there
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

– Sarah McLachlan

I have desired an end to pain, and then wonder what of the wisdom of the world I am missing.

I have desired wings most of all, but on second consideration understood that a halo is better.

I have desired death (or thought I did) more than once — or was it just to escape?

I have desired power over the forces of nature rather than over human beings: less danger in that.

I have desired love, like we all, then realize I had never really done nothing about it.

I have desired riches, and desired fame, but then wondered if it is only because we all do.

I have desired to be a Godly man, if it was not so inconvenient, thinking I could squeeze it in….

the science of my wondering
spoke no magic into the drink of midnight
rather to examine its own, misty self
and drop the hammer of time
to think things must get done somehow
even where light cannot reach
even where time forgets a moment or two

The way to please men, and be popular, always was, and always will be, Amaziah’s way; to tell men that they may worship God and the golden calf at the same time, that they may worship God and money, worship God and follow the ways of this wicked world which suit their fancy and their interest; to tell them the kingdom of God is not over you now, Christ is not ruling the world now; that the kingdom of God will only come when Christ comes at the last day, and meanwhile, if people will only believe what they are told, and live tolerably respectable lives, they may behave in all things else as if there was no God, and no judgments of God.

Emil Nolde: Autumn Sea VII

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A little sleep, a little slumber,
      a little folding of the hands to rest,
and poverty will come upon you like a robber,
      and want, like an armed warrior.
[Proverbs 24:33-34 NRSV]

These words have special meaning to me. I’ve had it happen. It was a long way down, into the pit, as it were, and the Lord found me when I hit bottom; wherein was the long climb out of it. If you don’t watch out, the rabbit hole goes surprisingly deep. But understand that the Lord is there, wherever you may land. Verily, I might not have found him, in fact, had I not been knocked down from the false heights I had been cruising. Was it worth it? Yes, now that it is long over. But I definitely would not have thought so during the struggle.

In vastest night, a stranded dream —
A stone to mark an endless stream;
I walked within its flight of doors
Where boomed the light a solid oar
To dredge my ship through Heaven’s floor.

Flowered there a sweetest breeze
Which sent through lost a tear of please…
To wander was the truest route,
And stories we’re to be about
Were inked by tears which God shed out.

Mountains formed of purest mist,
Hallways rose as angels wished,
Spoke the Lord, and cities lit,
Words the steel of buildings built;
Chairs of light where we will sit.

Opening a book of air,
I read a spirit resting there:
He turned a page of destiny
Where I was written as a tree
Whose every leaf an eye to see.

My ship grew tired, I grew near
Toward the weight of earthly here;
The stone sunk roots into the now,
The dream recalled the lonely crowds
Wherein its power is endowed.

It is interesting to note that those whom destiny seems to favor are exactly those who take charge of the choices in their lives. And in fact, destiny seems less inclined to make dreams come true of those who only dream. One may choose to float through this life, choosing (and yes, it is a choice) to believe that nothing you may do will change the outcome of what is to be in your world, and thus, make such a prophecy come to be. But this world is such that if one decides, quite the contrary, that what you decide means something — then you will find that the more you do this, the truer it becomes. Perhaps there will be things in your way, but perseverance always has rewards, if only in the resolution that whatever happened, you did your best. For this world: rather than nothing being in your control, if you really try, you may find the opposite sounds more and more likely: nothing is impossible.

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.

The notion that the salvation of Jesus is a salvation from the consequences of our sins, is a false, mean, low notion. The salvation of Christ is salvation from the smallest tendency or leaning to sin. It is a deliverance into the pure air of God’s ways of thinking and feeling. It is a salvation that makes the heart pure, with the will and choice of the heart to be pure. To such a heart, sin is disgusting. It sees a thing as it is, — that is, as God sees it, for God sees everything as it is. The soul thus saved would rather sink into the flames of hell than steal into heaven and skulk there under the shadow of an imputed righteousness. No soul is saved that would not prefer hell to sin. Jesus did not die to save us from punishment; he was called Jesus because he should save his people from their sins.

Franz Marc: Tiger

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we will be what songs cannot sing
nor kiss the secret of your glow
in the hand of breezes, guided to go far
your skin poured over mine in a longing touch
so true is the sound as one we lock
soul in soul where we both begin
as time floats away, adrift in your eyes
to imagine so closely to life unfolding
i am a breath away from being immortal
enclosed by your heart and fingertips
slowly as the music waltzes past
we weave our story in the fabric of moonlight