Forward
There is something within me—a truth that burns brighter than flame, yet slips through my grasp like smoke the moment I try to name it. It is wild, untamable, a fleeting whisper of eternity in a world of dust.
How cruel, this paradox: that as my spirit soars toward the sublime, my words crumble beneath me, leaving only the hollow echoes of what was meant. We are drawn upward by the ineffable, yet bound to earth by language that fails us, every syllable an apology for what it cannot contain. The light of something greater reveals itself, dazzling, un-shareable, while our efforts to capture it are left floundering in its shadow.
Even now, as I rise toward this wonder, I falter. My thoughts, once sharp and clear, scatter like leaves caught in a tempest. This fragile fragment I clutch to my chest—this pale glimmer of understanding—thrashes to be free, like a wild creature that knows it does not belong in the hands of the finite. And yet, I cling. I savor this moment, brief as it is, holding it with the tenderness of one who knows it will soon be gone.
How can I hope to describe the kaleidoscope of such knowing? Each piece, vibrant and breathtaking, shatters under the weight of my will to share it. Already, the edges blur, the colors fade. And so I ask: who will reclaim these glimpses of eternity, these raptured moments seen only by solitary eyes? Must they all be lost to the abyss of the unspoken?
Dust. That is the world we inhabit, this fragile pause between the blinding flash of the lightning and the deafening roar of the thunder. We call it life, but it is only a shadow, a breath between endlessness. And yet, even in this barren wasteland, there are cracks through which the light may seep. To see it, to touch it, requires a purity of intent so rare, so precious, that it feels like a miracle when it comes.
This touch of the eternal—it is a gift freely given. But, it demands we look deeper than the chaos, beyond the ceaseless crush of suffering we foolishly believe defines our existence. It demands we reach past every fresh wound, every new despair, in search of something greater.
What remains, then? What wisdom endures when all else has spiraled away? Only this: purity. The purity that comes not from youth or ignorance, but from a hard-won maturity of innocence. It is the only shard I have left, and I clutch it tightly, even as I spiral downward into the void. It is all that can carry me, all that can save me—if only I do not let it go.
Let us revere it. Let us love it. For in this fragile shard lies the echo of the infinite, and the promise of one fleeting moment raptured.
How cruel, this paradox: that as my spirit soars toward the sublime, my words crumble beneath me, leaving only the hollow echoes of what was meant. We are drawn upward by the ineffable, yet bound to earth by language that fails us, every syllable an apology for what it cannot contain. The light of something greater reveals itself, dazzling, un-shareable, while our efforts to capture it are left floundering in its shadow.
Even now, as I rise toward this wonder, I falter. My thoughts, once sharp and clear, scatter like leaves caught in a tempest. This fragile fragment I clutch to my chest—this pale glimmer of understanding—thrashes to be free, like a wild creature that knows it does not belong in the hands of the finite. And yet, I cling. I savor this moment, brief as it is, holding it with the tenderness of one who knows it will soon be gone.
How can I hope to describe the kaleidoscope of such knowing? Each piece, vibrant and breathtaking, shatters under the weight of my will to share it. Already, the edges blur, the colors fade. And so I ask: who will reclaim these glimpses of eternity, these raptured moments seen only by solitary eyes? Must they all be lost to the abyss of the unspoken?
Dust. That is the world we inhabit, this fragile pause between the blinding flash of the lightning and the deafening roar of the thunder. We call it life, but it is only a shadow, a breath between endlessness. And yet, even in this barren wasteland, there are cracks through which the light may seep. To see it, to touch it, requires a purity of intent so rare, so precious, that it feels like a miracle when it comes.
This touch of the eternal—it is a gift freely given. But, it demands we look deeper than the chaos, beyond the ceaseless crush of suffering we foolishly believe defines our existence. It demands we reach past every fresh wound, every new despair, in search of something greater.
What remains, then? What wisdom endures when all else has spiraled away? Only this: purity. The purity that comes not from youth or ignorance, but from a hard-won maturity of innocence. It is the only shard I have left, and I clutch it tightly, even as I spiral downward into the void. It is all that can carry me, all that can save me—if only I do not let it go.
Let us revere it. Let us love it. For in this fragile shard lies the echo of the infinite, and the promise of one fleeting moment raptured.