Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Mired in Holy Syllables

One begins and the beginning is the first sentence. Yet the first sentence is always very old, ancient even. And is not the same as an utterance. What does any of this have to do with God? Well, we are mired in holy syllables.

We are following a narrow path at noon when it is darkest. You aren't alone exactly but the felt presence is not perceived as a comfort. Be careful of the inclination to take sides, a natural consequence of seeing sides, which is actually the only problem you need to solve. Uh-huh. Tell me again where the eloquent go to die?

The sleep of the just or just sleep? The way that I say this - or that - matters. Your note left a tiny prick of sadness, through which a light poured like sand. At three a.m., worked on by angels, one discerns a buzzing and understands that death is the end one way, but the only way most of us know, which vexes. Are you laughing with me yet?

It does pass. One begins and the beginning is soon cocooned in time. Your river is my bright manger. Give me your hand then. Let's walk, you and I, in the only direction in we know.

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