Turn on a dime at least once in your life.

drunk with hoary knowledge, where the world tree grows in the frost
yet how you divide me into a thousand smoldering desires
stranded on bifrost, between middle earth and some deep purpose

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It’s not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there’ll be
No more turning away?

– Pink Floyd

Mordecai Ardon: Tammuz

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God is not disillusioned with us. He never had any illusions to begin with.

How time can seem endless for an hour and then we wonder where the hour went. This is the condition of man: full of sound and paradox, lost in himself, lost to the time that flows over and through him. We shelter our hearts like they were precious candle flames, then casually topple them when the time comes to act upon their light…. Look, up in the sky: a million stars that were never meant to care of how we come and go, but how they can inspire us if we let them. Long after we are gone, they will still shine their constant light: and this is not what is meant for us to be, our constant flickering. In our search to be human, let us not count the hours, for we know not when the clock strikes that we are finished. The endless hour will pass, remember, and remember that we were there for it, not matter how lost we seemed to be to the going.

I am lost in dreaming for a time, thinking only in riddles.

Within me somewhere still is a rebellious heart, though quiet.

There is fire in me, some new, some that was before I was.

If we do not touch, a distance will grow with our neglect.

Finding purpose in life is merely to understand this: love.

Listen to others: you might just find yourself in their words.

I have withstood what I could, and I let the other things pass.

You are what you dream.

the stand

we were mute here standing at the turning of the tide
the doomsayer died, and no one was left to foretell of the end
we walked on, forgetting, until we no longer had faces
till our feet bled what we had dreamed, out in the wilderness

bald with pride we stood against the rushing of the river
fierce in longing we prayed for the rains to recognize our pain
we wondered if to bathe in light would wash us our sins
here beyond the limits of the imaginary city, the dream of home

and standing alone, we kept watch over the infant visions
none to know except that he were the conduit of the electric fate
we burned in wonder, and lit a million candles, and hoped
drenched in dreaming, to find our way back to the word of life

would we stand in the path of the great wave of time?
inflicted with a thousand deaths as the yawn of eons boomed?
yet the architecture of night will crack, dawn glimmer
we remember the dream, the tip of forever in that single kiss

Love is the impossible made possible. This is what we, the faithful, must believe. This Easter season, let us remember that we are asked to believe the impossible made possible, one who was dead raised to life — wholly from within His own self, not by the hand of anyone else did this happen. Myself, let me say that I am a scientist, if one were to ask my personality. I do not go to this belief blindly. It comes again to say that those who do not believe in any of this “quaint” tradition, that these were merely not called, as yet. For I held it in my heart that it was only superstition, this whole bit about the resurrection — but then I was Called. I will not go into details, for these things are tailored specifically to the individual in question, it would seem (in other words, it may not seem a lot to you what happens, right up until it happens to you, too). But in my case, I now believe that this impossible thing was made possible: the God in man’s form came back to life after a horrible death. This is Easter. This is what we believe.

I’ll sing my song to the wide open spaces
I’ll sing my heart out to the infinite sea
I’ll sing my visions to the sky high mountains
I’ll sing my song to the free, to the free

– The Who

Max Ernst: The World of the Naïve

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I have hoped, and oftentimes, that has been enough. It is a silver thing, easily bent, and precious enough, beautiful and shining when it is pure. Look in a child’s eye and you will know of what power I speak when I speak of hope. Do you really have the idea of what it is, truly? It is not even to believe something will be, as ethereal as that is; yet it is more than a mere desire, which is at the mercy of the barest whim or can drive men mad. What is hope? Where waking imagination and dreaming mix, a pool of wondering “if” that the heart drinks of. You know that coolness of what I speak. That feeds a soul through deserts. That speaks in silence so profound.

Prayer is not a way of making use of God; prayer is a way of offering ourselves to God in order that He should be able to make use of us. It may be that one of our great faults in prayer is that we talk too much and listen too little. When prayer is at its highest we wait in silence for God’s voice to us; we linger in His presence for His peace and His power to flow over us and around us; we lean back in His everlasting arms and feel the serenity of perfect security in Him.

wander, my dreaming, to the time when time itself unfurled
when the world was merely desire, an inkling in the eye of God
what light that first light must have been, the darkness torn asunder

I saw it flash in the corner of my eye, the secret message: “You are not alone.” And a feeling that I should pass it on.

Ashes to ashes, but in between is life.

Dreaming is free, never forget this.

Time should not be resisted, but coaxed.

Fire can burn you or inside you.

It’s never God’s fault: figure out whose.

Flight is more for the soul than body.

Death already wins if you don’t live.

He drew on himself, every day: strange symbols, lines leading nowhere, circles with no particular inclination. His pens were continually running dry of ink, and if he took a bath, the water stained a blackish tint, as if he were washing away sins. The patterns he drew were a mystery of asymmetry, an ode to chaos; these markings were a war paint to a battle long over, and he had been on the side of the the defeated. No one ever asked him why he did this — there was a certain unknowable poetry to it, and people… people don’t ask questions when they think they already know the answer: he was a sign that the universe was as odd as they imagined. But if they had asked him, “Why?”, he would have answered, “This is what the whole of the world means — this is the way I see it. Each day the pattern changes, and when the old one washes away, I draw on myself what is new… like a reflection of it all that knows what it reflects, a world rewritten in abbreviations.”