Worry not. Things can be done.

What shall I say that I am overcome by, at times, hours when something it seems seizes me, and I am rendered immobile? For it seems like a force that I cannot win against, for it is as if my will itself is pre-empted. So many useful things that I may do, so many fruitful ventures that are before me, roads that I may travel, things to read, devices to concoct — and I will have none of them. I sit and do nothing, instead, for this gray thing has possessed me, and I cannot say it is some demonic essence, for it is quite more familiar than something so evil. I have a feeling it is from inside mine own self, which once I called friend, or some sort of pet, which I raised from its merest inkling, some time ago. Is this Sloth? Because if it is, I knew not it could be something like an entity, that overrides in something like an active sense. But I should not care so much for names: I have met you before, and I have shaken you free from me more than once. You shall not have final say upon my fate.

A dream: an interplay of light and shadow that expresses some sort of inner meaning, an exchange of fluid interpretations, an imagining of a world that is unseen: I have not traveled very far, I think, having gone in circles until I am exhausted, waking up and going again toward some untenable achievement. One may ask, where does one speak of why one asks why? For the metawhy is that spirit within us that dreams, as dreams are the commentary of one’s mind about itself. I go to the realm where there are no answers to the questions, except that one understands that within the question itself, there is meaning — that one asks it at all. And I sit and I wonder, under a sky that stares at me with a myriad blind eyes, with a patience that comes from having failed many times over…. A dream: I find what I am looking for, even without knowing what it is I seek, or that I am looking at all.

God’s work isn’t done by God…

– Ani DiFranco

Odilon Redon: Flower Clouds

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Heights

I stand upon a high cliff,
and watch the world,
taller than a madman.
SEE how I casually slip,
as if I cared not for any afterlife,
feints only angels can catch,
but they, too, know
I am only begging for attention.
SEE how the light
pours down upon me,
as if I had ordered it specially
to cast a halo upon my portrait,
remembering that God
lets it shine on the wicked
as much as the just.
SEE how I have lifted myself,
though I do not pretend
that I might touch the feet of the almighty,
still, there are airs below me
I should rather dwell within,
lest I consider myself
the dreambringer, and not so
that I am merely passenger.
SEE, do you see? I wander
through my whole lifetime
in the hour that I hurt,
and a thousand joys
are over in a second:
I am high enough, at this moment
right now, that if I fell,
I could imagine for one minute,
that I would fly, fly away.

A Christian man is most free lord of all, and subject to none; a Christian man is the most dutiful servant of all, and subject to everyone.

I am left to hurtle through my feelings, for my passions will not let me be. Thrown about on the inside as if my soul were coursing past the speed of sound, crashing into my will and my sensibilities — is this what I am meant for? For I cannot casually like something, but rather must obsess at every detail of it, cannot want something without being addicted to it in some way, to abuse it if I get the chance. I am worse than all or nothing: I am positive or negative infinity, with no middle ground at all. What I in ordinary day wanted to do I have forgotten, now, as what is before me commands my every attention: and I need not specify what it is, this time, because it is this way every time: like a madness that seizes me, which I know not where it comes, just to once in a while that it overwhelms my everythought, and my being is no longer in control, the throttle to desire and wondering let loose…. Though I do say this of it all: to let me feel too much, rather than nothing; too much life all calling all at once, than death’s still, where nothing can question.

Somewhere in me is a purpose that is larger than me, that greater voices have evoked, that from a vial of hopes has been stirred into my liquid soul.

Somewhere in me is a strength I have never used, and God help me if I ever need to call upon it, a will from above, that which cannot be defeated.

Somewhere in me is a vision of an unseen world, and it is these things which are eternal, for all things that are seen shall have an end, and shall pass away.

Somewhere in me is a dream that is older than me, which I have become a part of, like entering a grand river coursing through time.

Somewhere in me is a place that is home, which I carry with me, for we are never at rest unless we are content in our own skins.

Somewhere in me is a quiet more solemn than the silence of a multitude, where nothing of this world may disturb me, where I listen for God.

Somewhere in me is love, and this is the most mysterious: I can never quite put my finger on what it is, but it is the surest thing that I ever had.

The secret is love. Tell everyone.

All we now, cynical to the point of being naïve,
have silly dreams, fantasies we will deny the existence of,
even knowing the person next to you is thinking the same.

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

Magritte: Not to Be Reproduced

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May the Spirit of God help you to give of yourself as recklessly for the cause of Christ throughout the whole world as God “recklessly” gave His Son, Jesus Christ.

I should stop thinking that I can see the underlying reason(s) why things happen like they do. I am invariably wrong when I so theorize. How many times have I thought that I glimpsed the outlying points of the Plan, the Truth beneath the truth, the wonder of the Wisdom? And always, it turns out that what I saw was nothing of the sort, merely all too human rationalizations of what I believe thing should be. But I suppose it is the curse of the human animal, that he tries to find the pattern to it all. And that instinct has borne much fruit, if one thinks of it — all of science rests on this ability. But I must remember that even in disciplines with empirical backing, many the pattern was seen that had no basis in what is; probably it is the case that many more turned out to be wrong than right. What I try and do, to intuit the reasons of the Infinite — how much more will I end up inside wrong conclusions? And yet this habit, if I am right one in a thousand times: that thousandth time, if it comes at all, that would be worth it, indeed. The most fractured of glimpses.

On amber wings I have glided past the hills of my wondering, and I have broken through the horizon more than once, to come back hoary from the freeze of the void. I have stood still while the seasons traveled over me, while the years slipped quietly by, until this child’s shadow shrank into the nothingness of yesterday. By the river of time I have skipped stones across the waters: I named each of them before they sunk into the depths of all passing, slipped from my knowing beneath the Flow into time’s river bed, until they, too, forgot that they had ever been so free. But all of it: one day, I think, I must relearn to dream, for these myths that I concoct are too strong a brew for just one night’s sleep. I must climb down from the roof of the world, and watch the sunset from the shores of the imaginable — as heaven and earth meet for one solemn kiss.

There is time enough to do enough.

a cry

there is a cry
flies through drifting dream
and solidities
touches down in some hearts
though unknowing
becomes as one with secrets
shuffles off the skin of the soul
exposing some fashion of truth
this, too, unknowable
as all truths, mystery
and the cry, a pure song
passes from mouth to mouth
like a kiss, innocent
makes you want to go, to go
as if you forgot along the way
how to fly, not in dreaming
and wondering
as if no one had ever wondered
no one had ever heard
the beauty in sadness
our eyes too teary
to see any of it
that the house of wisdom
is a house of mourning
and the cry, so plain
like yesterday
why have you forsaken me?