Wednesday, March 14, 2007

With such small discipline and a great amount of love I have been spoken to again. The rocks I sit on must symbolize something but I'm not sure yet. The memories do haunt, but they leave as fast as they come sometimes, so what is there to fear? Of all the life my spirit has been drained of there is still something which will happen, and it has only and could only be moved by that love which moves the breeze into my lungs. By all music, by all manner of wisdom and love, by all ecstatic laughter there is that peace which is shown to me on those rocks and on that dirt. By each strand of vision and ecstacy between every musical phrase by instrument or by wind it comes closer. Neither by valley nor darkness nor depth nor width will I be seperated unless absolutely necessary so my eyes will be opened again. And they have, if only to a squint. There is a reason for my fear of attention through creativity and music: who am I to present such a force? I am not. But that force which moves me is, and for this I have to embrace it finally. How long I'll be standing in it I have no idea, but to stand at all is a task worthy of excitement for me. And in dreams that show me future events and the knowledge of what has happened, though in life they haven't yet, I am affirmed, but not overly optomistic.
Little time has passed since I was using many crutches and buffers, and I still do, but not the same. There is change and a hope to change, no matter how much I've tried to repell it. I have placed many false hopes in things I shouldn't or know better not to, but there remains one great source of which hope isn't even in question. It isn't an act of hope, but of faith, meek as it may be for myself. And so, there remain then faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. And finally I've realized this more than I've expected to know, but not as much as I should, and this remains the goal. To speak of it can be a relief but can more often be painful, as words fall short. So silence, especially as I've known, seems the way to go, because being outward by my own means is terribly difficult and unnatural. Even if those who are with me don't see it or sense it for this reason, because it is inward, nevertheless it moves me to do all things I do. And truly, Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. Ironically, in this separation, I am closer.