I have thought I knew what the difference was, to be, or not —
I have thought I knew so much, as if my dreams only spoke the truth;
yet he who knew he knew nothing, knew more than I ever did.

Don’t believe the devil, I don’t believe his book
But the truth is not the same without the lies he made up

– U2

Paul Klee: Dream City

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To the Christian, love is the works of love. To say that love is a feeling or anything of the kind is really an un-Christian conception of love. That is the aesthetic definition and therefore fits the erotic and everything of that nature. But to the Christian, love is the works of love. Christ’s love was not an inner feeling, a full heart and what-not: it was the work of love which was his life.

(This is more of my sci-fi project I randomly work on. Enjoy.)

Numb. I am numb, an approximation of oblivion. Images of the virtual past flash in and out, tiny electric jolts sparking through the emptiness in my head — I am all wires and flesh, mixed together, shiny new veins coursing through the muscle, new lifeblood for the new age. It is merely a metaphor, when it comes down to it, if you chose to analyze it in any sort of perceptive way. Though I suppose it is as real as it needs to be. Really, they could actually be used to transmit something useful, these threads of copper — and they could be made of anything else, too, I might conjecture. Or you could use them purely for the visual appeal, plastic tubing that reminisces of an age where these were (in many places) the only option. And now that I think about these things, I realize that I am coming to, and remember I have eyes — but where did I put them?

My thought is perched upon a precipice, looking out into the unknown. Perhaps it is time for my mind to stop wandering. I wonder what these dreams I have really mean, whether they are worthy of me, and I worthy of them — there is work to be done, I know that for sure. I have gone down enough pathways that led to barrenness, that twisted back on themselves, and that just go on and on without end, that I am wary now of where I should step. But go, I must; this is for certain. And I do not know which part of the adventure will be the ultimate reason why — who is to know such things? — so I think I must taste it all as if such wine shall never be bottled again. Into the uncharted: I imagine that what is meant to be will happen, like it or not, and saint or fool, I must claim my destiny. Dream my dream.

We are here to make the attempt. If nothing else.

Dreamer

Dreamer, what this night portends:
A faith begins, a journey ends,
A life that leads to know-not-where
Learns to find a meaning there.

Dreamer, what this night allows:
A fight to win, a secret vow,
A notion that the right to see
Is not the most essential key.

Dreamer, what this night forewarns:
A tragic love, an angel’s scorn,
A pride that hidden swells above
What prayers are most seeking of.

Dreamer, what this night endows:
A flight away, a method how,
A will that knows when time will end
And poem’s done, and night ascend.

Then there are those times where I am so full of hope: a song I hear or just a breeze sometimes does it, sends me flying. And I sense that I have come far in this journey called life, and that there are still quite a lot of adventures yet that lie ahead. My God, it would seem, would not have it so that I am constantly wallowing in my self-pity; I feel the hand of that which is Higher in all this. I may be wrong about why or how it all comes about, but that the divine exists, and interplays with earthbound existence, I cannot rationally conclude anything but that there is a Purpose somewhere, whatever you may want to call it. They may put a name to it, they may call it “Nature”, but whatever you may believe of all that is; there are moments when the silver wheels of creation reveal themselves, the underpinnings of all that is the world of appearances: and in a briefest of epiphanies, you sense the transcendental that exists in all that is ordinary. Then it makes sense: “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends

– The Doors

Egon Schiele: Agony

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There is no rhyme that will fit, sometimes the lines won’t scan, whatever you might rearrange the words to mean.

What is the sum total of all hopes? For if they prove true, then something else gets the credit, and if they are false, you are crushed for no reason at all.

But I have told myself I do not want riches, and convenient all of it is, such an easy prophecy, a story to stick to, if I ever heard it.

Shall I pretend to understand the mystery? The fabric of the patterns that I match within my consideration cannot take the stress of any ordinary wear.

In dreams I have been lost, at times, and been delirious and happy. But the taste of this salty sadness: it is richer than any cloud.

I have stopped wanting to fly away, to escape, to leave everything behind — and then I realize is that it is because I actually have things to leave behind, now.

Shall I stop trying to rhyme things? Who cares if no one will ever know all these things of mine, maybe not even me? I lived like it mattered.

Our business is to love what God would have us do. He wills our vocation as it is: let us love that, and not trifle away our time in hankering after other people’s vocation.

Sometimes to walk in sublime thought, as if off of the ground.
Sometimes as if all of me is heart, and all of that is broken.
Sometimes to know all at once who I am, and still wonder why.