Listen carefully: the universe is at war. Holy fire billows in the void, dark storm fronts of despair crackle and flash with all the colors of fury. Armies are sallying forth from the heavenly places, swift-footed agents escape certain capture. Legions of evils fountain up wherever the thin fabric of the mortal realm punctures, leaking across our world like a spreading pool of ink. We here in the finite world are both soldiers and battlegrounds, both waging war and being waged over. Every little word and thought is as a bolt of fire and a thrusting sword in the reality beyond reach.
I can hear it, sometimes. The music playing in my dreams the moment before I wake. Though I can never remember the tune, my whole soul reverberates afterward. I see the effect if not the cause, like the invisible wind tossing a tree's limbs against a gun-metal gray sky.When you know you've heard the song, nothing else matters. We are notes in the song, pages in someone else's story.
Do you see it? Those rich red-brown autumn colored hills that spread off out of sight? The morning mists that hang over millponds and dewy fields? Those pale morning skies that soon give way to the deep blue of a crisp november day? They are not just in one place, nor in a single memory. They transcend memories, are too real and too big for place or time or human understanding.
I can feel it at times, mostly when I was younger. The gentle sting of a morning breeze stripping away layers of sleep. The feel of waking, of being alert and aware of wondrous things: mountain slopes and flushed dawn clouds and that wind blowing in your face. Deep oceans of peace and mountaintops of joy.
For split seconds I think I have seen the people who live in those mountains, maybe only begun to understand their majesty. Great sacrifices and burning loves and indomitable heroes are in those lands; heroes who never die and wear a thousand faces.
And so I remain, staring with hardened eyes before you, my heart filling up with sadness. It wells up from a grief at what should be, and in my childish dreams deferred they boil up as anger. No, I love you still, more perhaps as I learn more of you. But with every word, thought and deed that honors the darkness's sovereignty it grows in power over your heart, and I see the stars that shine upon you dim from a spreading cloud.
I am not some righteous bastion of faith, that need choke out my enemies like a tyrant. Evil does not offend me, it grieves me, as I watch it poison the spirit world. Colors fade, and the song from the infinite mountains grows hard to hear. I am pained, choked as if on ash by the evil that pervade us in this realm. That which serves life gives me life; that which serves death, to me, is death itself.
So please forgive me, for the sudden tempests that sweep across my face. I am weary, and walking a long road to my home.
I can hear it, sometimes. The music playing in my dreams the moment before I wake. Though I can never remember the tune, my whole soul reverberates afterward. I see the effect if not the cause, like the invisible wind tossing a tree's limbs against a gun-metal gray sky.When you know you've heard the song, nothing else matters. We are notes in the song, pages in someone else's story.
Do you see it? Those rich red-brown autumn colored hills that spread off out of sight? The morning mists that hang over millponds and dewy fields? Those pale morning skies that soon give way to the deep blue of a crisp november day? They are not just in one place, nor in a single memory. They transcend memories, are too real and too big for place or time or human understanding.
I can feel it at times, mostly when I was younger. The gentle sting of a morning breeze stripping away layers of sleep. The feel of waking, of being alert and aware of wondrous things: mountain slopes and flushed dawn clouds and that wind blowing in your face. Deep oceans of peace and mountaintops of joy.
For split seconds I think I have seen the people who live in those mountains, maybe only begun to understand their majesty. Great sacrifices and burning loves and indomitable heroes are in those lands; heroes who never die and wear a thousand faces.
And so I remain, staring with hardened eyes before you, my heart filling up with sadness. It wells up from a grief at what should be, and in my childish dreams deferred they boil up as anger. No, I love you still, more perhaps as I learn more of you. But with every word, thought and deed that honors the darkness's sovereignty it grows in power over your heart, and I see the stars that shine upon you dim from a spreading cloud.
I am not some righteous bastion of faith, that need choke out my enemies like a tyrant. Evil does not offend me, it grieves me, as I watch it poison the spirit world. Colors fade, and the song from the infinite mountains grows hard to hear. I am pained, choked as if on ash by the evil that pervade us in this realm. That which serves life gives me life; that which serves death, to me, is death itself.
So please forgive me, for the sudden tempests that sweep across my face. I am weary, and walking a long road to my home.
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