The greatest proof of Christianity for others is not how far a man can logically analyze his reasons for believing, but how far in practice he will stake his life on his belief.

In the dreaming, light lifted me into the realms of thought.

In the dreaming, an eternity of quiet ended as stars fell from heaven.

In the dreaming, I wrestled the darkness till dawn’s dispel.

In the dreaming, a tree with leaves of fire lit the dark forest.

In the dreaming, night and day shared the sky, sun amid the stars.

In the dreaming, I lived a life in an hour, but this as life is.

In the dreaming, a girl with sapphire eyes stirred the elixir of destiny.

[The beginning of a book which on a whim I decided to start writing.]

What does it take to be an everyman?

I know I let another day slip by, the time floating through me and encroaching upon my skin, making it slowly, inevitably more like stone. This is all a dream. But I write things down, anyway, even if the paper will vanish come the end of night. I find the madness comes and goes, the thought that is not a thought leaving me twisted — if only for a moment. I have seen snakes in the fire. Seeing, too, that I have been alone for some time, now, occasionally happy in my own way: I have forgotten what is touch, what it is to feel someone breathing. Notions: another day has fallen, another cycle closed, a dream forgotten.

You can play by the rules and still change everything.

my dreaming drifted in the breezes, an aroma pleasing to the process
my thin breathing to exhale strands of words lighter than atmosphere

my wondering floated through the smog, emerging a dirty hope
my hands quivering from the desire, what we know of the universe

my eyes traveling into the infinite horizon, the epiphany of angels
my thought pouring into the world stream, wet with creation

my light is a poor candle, and cannot illuminate my reflection
my life is a curious leaf, descending from a tree that forgets

I wait for the convergence of all things. I do what I can to accelerate the process. For in me is the belief that time will resolve into a dew upon the light of a new dawn. That things will happen and people will act, that plans will come to fruition — if not in the common of occurrence, then in the rare instance of hope that comes to be fulfilled. I wait for the rain to fall, which will precursor the greenness of spring; I wait for the moon to be full, that I might see the color of your eyes in its pale glow. I remember to plant the seeds that the waters are drunk, and I remember to invite you out into the forest, out into the night, when the looking out will cast the proper magic. Anticipation may be a delicious thing. And the future not always to come to an end, or even then, that beginnings may sprout from the bleakest of aftermath, after the most final of ceasing.

There has to be an invisible sun
It gives its heat to everyone
There has to be an invisible sun
That gives us hope when the whole day’s done

It’s dark all day, and it glows all night
Factory smoke and acetylene light
I face the day with me head caved in
Looking like something that the cat brought in

– The Police

Adam Fuss: Untitled

Click on the pic for a larger version.

What kind of toy world do they want? If we were only capable of the good, and not the evil, how much worth would the good possess? That we could never say that we endured the pain — how could we be said to be strong? That God could be comprehended so easily as to able to fit our pictures of blame, even less an entity than our fellow human, whom we cannot decipher? What did we expect from One whom God sent, that He would by sheer muscle drive the evil from this world? Surely, He would not suffer any pain or death, but like a conquering angel set himself up on the throne of the world! These things: they tell of a greater thing than we can imagine, mind beyond our small ideas. Of which the hints are there, if we choose to see. No toy world is this, no mere experiment: the stakes are higher than money can buy: life and death, the dust of eternity.

It is quite possible to perform very ordinary actions with so high an intention as to serve God therein better than in far more important things done with a less pure intention.

the light streams down in floods of golden sunbeams, all dreaming
i can see into the next world, though my eye shapes it to my know
the higher cannot be understood in terms of this dense world

Do what is right, and trust in God.

My dagger is a word that cuts through punctuation. With it, I have carved my name in the atmosphere, and scratched a hymn into the dust of the ground. Like a character in a far flung fiction, blazing with a passionate drive, I once proved myself worthy of what I am; or was that just an illusion? My dagger is cold in its sharpness, which could penetrate the walls of oblivion, slice in two any manner of concept. The fires that forged it cannot be lit again, and there will be no blade as that which extends to a point from within my hand, that extends into the unknown in the most piercing hello. One day I will lose it, and they who discover it will not be able to understand that it was a magical familiar of mine, but I imagine they will see it in ways I do not. It matters not, for it is in my memory; it has a home forever as a heft in my hand just so, even if I never see it again, and I swipe the air with an empty fist.