Need to take a break from this, I think. I must concentrate on other things, gather myself for what lies ahead. Mayhap I will be back in a month or so, but for now, let what is here suffice. I imagine not all of you have been with me from the beginning of this adventure, and I suggest to you to look in the archives of this place. I have tried not to be stuck within a certain time with my writings, so perhaps the meaning is not lost in the things of the past. I will see you again soon.

All we may touch of eternity, here in this world, is death… or Christ.

accidental surfaces: papers strewn by winds and covering
          acres in a millionlike patchwork
these books were not burned, but worse: unopened,
          tragic as unmarked graves, as if unlived
my senses are swallowed in the fugue, mist without
          memory of the black, bloodless truth
only crippled may you crawl into the house of wisdom;
          only destitute are you blameless
like a dream, you cannot understand the fate from inside
          it: the puzzle is not made of its pieces
without magic i will leap, fire at my heels, time to slow
          like wondering as i hang from the sky
and yet i am nothing but a follicle of dust shivering in a
          brownian daydream, mostly lost

Night falls, a smothering hush the summer darkness.

Night falls, seeping into our skins come winter midnight.

Night falls, a second life of the world awake in spring sundown.

Night falls, quiet and brittle like dead leaves come evening fall.

Night falls, as a babe to wonder what lurked in the dark.

Night falls, to hide away all the world between youth and age.

Night falls, a wondering in the stillness of the old day passing.

Shut your eyes, I spin the big chair
And you’ll feel dizzy, light, and free
And falling gently on the cushion
You can come and sing to me

And when the worrying starts to hurt
and the world feels like graves of dirt
Just close your eyes until
you can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will

– Snow Patrol

Chagall: I And The Village

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When we are young we only hear the sharps and the flats, and the melody is lost on us. We know only of the crushing beat, that compels us to dance, and the flute that plays the constant tune behind — we miss. The fine grain patterns of the asphalt road: how many of us saw more than its gray average before our eyes began to discern true detail? True, the sweet was sweeter, at least, that is how we imagine things were; but the subtleties were swallowed in the sloppy mix of all experience. Youth may be wasted on the young, but sometimes, one imagines that we are at the age we deserve. That rewards are not so plain, blunt, and sugary — that ecstasy is not how we measure all pleasure. The years are kinder than we think, if we think not of it all only to complain, if we imagine the best is still with us, and to come.

A man may carry the whole scheme of Christian truth in his mind from boyhood to old age without the slightest effect upon his character and aims. It has had less influence than the multiplication table.

rhythms that are deep within cannot be touched by darkness
flight is possible when what is inside you cannot be contained
you may discover that there is more light in your soul than doubt

Leave me broken. But do not leave me.
Amen.

Be bold — and mighty forces will come to your aid.
– Basil King

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.
– Abraham Lincoln

One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done.
– Marie Curie

Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
– Mahatma Gandhi

When in doubt, tell the truth.
– Mark Twain

There are many things which do not concern the process.
– Joan of Arc

Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him?
– Calvin and Hobbes

There is not a greater truth that is not also a simple truth. Remember that God confounds the wisest, that which is plain to the children. For all the complexity of man’s knowledge, he has most trouble with the simple things: Why am I? What is the world? How shall I live? The meaning of life escapes us all, and one suspects that those who know it best of all are the ones who never ask what it might be. These are not paradoxes, merely the real that is stranger than any fiction: what else could we expect from a God who is love? We will never understand something so simple, always misinterpreting the miracle: ask and it shall be given to you, knock and it shall be opened….

Shut your eyes and think of somewhere
Somewhere cold and caked in snow
By the fire we break the quiet
Learn to wear each other well

And when the worrying starts to hurt
and the world feels like graves of dirt
Just close your eyes until
you can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will

– Snow Patrol

Mordecai Ardon: Testament of a Dead Leaf

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