It is impossible to imagine the essence of everything; words that draw a universe of light and sound, emitting forth the truest beauty and grandeur that even God must acknowledge as being a faint resemblance of Himself; something akin to the solitude of the poetic Void that enshrouds the Allness of the Infinitesimal—a time as both instant and eternal;
words: words that embrace the nothingness of the Truth and the completeness of the lie untold and being at once entrenched within the brilliance of that eternal moment that bursts forth into the glorious light beyond the darkness that exists no more; at once being within and without,
the feeling that moves our souls and God’s soul, that we are one, not only in being but in being not; being not as a whole or a part but a thing that is itself, a thing that exists but for a fraction of an eternity; a quantum of silence inside the banging of God’s ineffable whisper that calls forth the emptiness within Himself to slay his solitude; even as angels sprang forth as stars littering the unending Blackness in a blinding, deafening fountain of rushing air spewing forth into the once still sea of the subtle aum of God’s loving breath; a shout, a whisper, a symphony of resounding thunder, lightning revealing the birth of Time: a gentle rain that descends upon the ocean of God’s enduring grace;
his faith and promise unrevealed yet obvious in its sublimity as we quietly emerge from the fragrance of his voice; a voice so pure and holy, so perfect it cannot be heard, only attuned like a cello reverberating within our breast as this being an awakening of the Spirit, the animus which imbues our life, being the sustenance of all that we are; as the beginning and end, as the word first unspoken– the song that silently fades into the endless memory that God ordains;
a dissimilitude of thoughts that tear us from His bosom, that shreds the once perfect union of all that is and all that is not; being us, the original sin, so impure as even a speck of atoma on an endless, brilliant snow defiles the sacred name which is unnamed;
as he draws the bow of his unbounded grace, his endless devotion, that bow of eternal consciousness, it is drawn across the strings of his omniscience: emitting vibrations that ripple through the fabric of time, the tapestry of space, and that endless ocean of Thought and Being, His being, calling forth the frames of History, each quantum particle spinning out into the realm of eternity and returning back to the instrument of God’s divine sublimation, in the random, chaos of his eternal order we are born, imperfect in the Auspice of Time, yet perfected in his Will;
the price of this perfection being the destruction of Himself, in that infinite instant within the instant, He allowed the imperfect to exist without Him, granting an amnesty through His Grace that endures forever; as Forever fades into the silent sea from which it sprang, and as the bow is still, the solemn strings slowly sleep, and the echo of His whispered love fills our souls—in this instant I see the All, the essence of everything, and I too sleep in the eternal conscious which is He, the cellist, the cello, the symphony of Himself, silently playing from before all things were until all things are not