monsters, scorpions and imaginary time to the sounds of sigur ros

It has been awhile since I felt your sting.

Crouched over, clutching my heart, my lungs, my guts, I looked out over the balcony and wanted me to spill over the edge, splashing down nameless into the lapping waves of the sea.  What shall we call this moment, bereft of hope?

What a pity it is to be nameless.  Maybe that’s why God had Adam name the animals first.  Perhaps the animals would have slunk back into the earth, regressing to the dust from whence they came, had this voice not roused them, awakening them to identity and distinction.

I should know.

Voices clamour for attention, screaming to be heard.  And I allow myself to be seduced, continually.

There is always a choice.

Yours words offer little comfort  but it is not your fault.  I have fought the current, often embracing my love affair with the riptide but we’ve always known I was never a strong enough swimmer.  So now we stand on opposite shorelines, and we are separated by a million miles of gradual shifting and turning aside, so our paths stretch as infinite parabolas, imperceptibly and beautifully close at one point, yet ever extending into a rapidly expanding universe, a fervent, hypnotic rush of atoms and space.

Yet, I find this distance too, shall be redeemed.

A few have learned to bend the confines of time and death and convention and it is those whom we must learn to follow.  Footsteps that attract to and recede from the grave, and suddenly, lifted lighter than air into a bright and glorious city, washed clean and made new.  One day to merge the divine with the material, where monsters and demons are burned up, leaving behind only debris and ash, the only remnants of their incineration.

The world goes not well.  But the Kingdom comes.

Amen.  Come, Lord Jesus.

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