God’s benevolence is receding from the world as darkness envelopes it.
Taboos are cloaking devices; things which slither and whisper and pry further open the abyss are hidden behind shimmering beams of passivity.
There is no passivity in the wild evening sunlit air though: more astonishment, incomprehensible things which strike me dead in their fullness, overwhelming amounts of stunning untold beauty; it’s so real I can taste it, and the breeze is inside me, and it seems certain that I was born and that I exist and that this tableaux is inviting me to climb higher to feel more to have my soul anchored to an eternal power source which never taps out if I don’t want it to.
And the breeze continues to slay me, new vistas and shadows are more real than anything I can show you, more dense than dark matter black holes, and more wondrous than past nostalgia could ever dream to dredge up in its most potent moments.
There is something wrong with me, and it’s deep. I am going to keep writing about this same stupid tree and the same sun and the same me in different moments for the rest of my life.
There are many things wrong in me, that inclination is not one of them.
“Beauty will save the world.” ——-Dostoevsky