The saints all suffer for this, that which I gaze upon. I’m living that divine life now, full of rapture, despair, peace and loneliness. The mists cling to the form of night. Pain settles in from childhood. Memories of a sunrise with a lover shade themselves with loss. The sun hazily breaks through to my veins for the first time this morning.
I want to dance on the water, in the shadows at the edge of light and dark, but my faith is too little, my will too fearful.
Two ripples from across eternity meet. One continues on anew; the other melds and folds into time. Brilliance shining; light giving; peace offering; games enticing—the ripple and stillness of the water evoke time itself into being.
Do we not all possess the divine right of kings… the hint of evening sunlight upon our cheek, or the grace suffused into our spines to straighten out shame. Will not we give into the eternity glowing around and within us. Will we always strive for more, for uncertainty, for a stone foundation in the land of mist and air? Are we not mightily misguided by our own voices and yet given to annoyance when a bird calls across our vision.
The divine right of kings stretches out before us. But the detritus of the past and the unquenchable desire to control the future prevent us from even knowing how to reach out and possess present divinity.
I die a thousand little deaths each moment. One day, I will die the final one. I don’t know how I will feel then, but it cannot be much worse than the foreboding loneliness I feel now.