I see where I am, now I perceive what I am in, now
Two Way Street, in Two Face Town.
I have traveled here, for a time too long. I believed, in signs on my side of the street.
Too blind to see and perceive, that the goods inside the stores that fester behind the camouflaged advertisements and shout “Free! Ideologies, convictions, truths – you’ll see!” were unfinished, unfounded, precarious, but firmly believed. They shout with a stink, “who needs perspective, truth, dialogue? Ha! Indeed. I have all that. I don’t need anymore, see?”
At this point on Two Way Street, I see in the road A bottleneck. No divider between drivers, thoughts, and their fists prepared to be freed. A determined collision between unstoppable forces, that both claim to be sovereign, that both live to rule infallibly.
One way words wielded in a joust, I see, on Two Way Street, the lie is impartiality fires roar in minds set free, from what? The very things they preach.
I shall journey on, seeking True Way Street in Nonpareil Town, where impossibilities are seeded and blanket the ground, giving rise to the garden of revelation and compromise. Because in this garden, death and opinion find their beautiful demise.
I think that God must be a writer, a creator so free.
I think, as I write in the sleeping air of eve, That God must be sitting in the delicious air all around and beside me, Him.
God’s presence is harmony: every scent, every sight, sound and purposeful written in that crushing comfort of love, flowing into us all.
I think God must enjoy, the feeling of a favorite writing tool. Inky cosmos in place of a quill. Stars wielded instead of lead spilled. And sunsets dyeing instead of crayons trying to capture the kaleidoscope of hope full colors, as God masterfully washes his horizons with strokes that will time, and time again, elicit unending awe and scope
In a future, so distant, yet so familiarly far, God waits. God tells: don’t rush, enjoy this time here yet, You know to slow, know to pause. What is correct without flaws washed away, our eraser remains, our lessons unlearned, until the days stains are, and the graphite of regret, is wiped and cleaned by God’s unblemished. We, the written, are redeemed.
God’s pencil is life, a tool unparalleled. We but imitate, impersonate, and attempt to model perfection beheld.
Our potential rests quietly, unmoving, untapped. But when the author shares that his pencil is for us and each other, that life is in fact also our story to write of, partake of, to wield uncapped for our brothers, we dip our plume of love into the hallowed ivory inkwell and pen a loving epilogue for life that no ravenous darkness can erase or quell.
God must write, His signature is upon it. For who, or what else, could weave a tale as poetic and tragic and hopeful and careful as our own; a mysteriously radiant candle.