In the beginning…
He must have been a beautiful baby floating there in the vacuum of space, glittering like 10 billion stars with the potential energy of an innumerable myriad of densities and vast spaces. When I close my eyes and listen to "white Christmas" I can almost see him there, a tiny speck of light in the distance or a germ floating on the surface of my eye appearing to move away the more I try to focus in. He is beautiful and as real as any other memory and I begin to wonder if it is possible to miss someone that you have never met. He is not like how the others have described him. There is no long white beard or hansom son to inherit the earth nor is there a great white light leading us to his feet. I know this because I have seen him there in the darkest of shadows, His singular light burning long winding shapes into my retinas, indecipherable to the naked eye but as complete as any well written novel to the psyche. Now the truth sits idle like an old dry seed in the barrel of every mans soul, the last remnants of a garden poorly tended to and overgrown with time and death and hope and fear. It is true that only the blind have faith because they take every trusting step towards more darkness in a world designed to be seen. Now that god is dead it is not the ghost hunters or the men of his name that will find him. It will be the diggers with no arms that will unearth his bones and the listeners with no ears that will hear his sigh as he is lifted into the fresh air of a newly made day. Like the colors of the sun setting and rising, life is far more intense and beautiful at the moment we are first born and at the time that we die then in the space between in which we ponder both.
I watched the great fire in the clouds for hours until my eyes could no longer focus on what was in front of me. It was there that I first saw the face of God, and it is here where I now dance in his great shadow.
He must have been a beautiful baby floating there in the vacuum of space, glittering like 10 billion stars with the potential energy of an innumerable myriad of densities and vast spaces. When I close my eyes and listen to "white Christmas" I can almost see him there, a tiny speck of light in the distance or a germ floating on the surface of my eye appearing to move away the more I try to focus in. He is beautiful and as real as any other memory and I begin to wonder if it is possible to miss someone that you have never met. He is not like how the others have described him. There is no long white beard or hansom son to inherit the earth nor is there a great white light leading us to his feet. I know this because I have seen him there in the darkest of shadows, His singular light burning long winding shapes into my retinas, indecipherable to the naked eye but as complete as any well written novel to the psyche. Now the truth sits idle like an old dry seed in the barrel of every mans soul, the last remnants of a garden poorly tended to and overgrown with time and death and hope and fear. It is true that only the blind have faith because they take every trusting step towards more darkness in a world designed to be seen. Now that god is dead it is not the ghost hunters or the men of his name that will find him. It will be the diggers with no arms that will unearth his bones and the listeners with no ears that will hear his sigh as he is lifted into the fresh air of a newly made day. Like the colors of the sun setting and rising, life is far more intense and beautiful at the moment we are first born and at the time that we die then in the space between in which we ponder both.
I watched the great fire in the clouds for hours until my eyes could no longer focus on what was in front of me. It was there that I first saw the face of God, and it is here where I now dance in his great shadow.
