If I write as if I would in a journal, my writing can be considered selfish. Not only that. If I think then write, potential audiences who may find or seek these words come to mind.
My pen halts, my fear overcomes. I said this in a class: Words cannot convey the entirety of experience. Transcription isn’t translation. How could I fully speak or write, sing or relieve the depths and touches, the caresses and the fumbling of lovers who sought elysian fields? How could I bring my unexpected clever
searcher look, there I did it, hiding the word to write — thief of a lover to beyond to myself?
The numinous, the sacred, the majestic, the kairotic paired to the chronic, the sublime, the divine, the magnificence.
How do I speak to this world so beautiful, still so beautiful, when he sees the dark night, where she fears the endless in all her pain to see. They turn to conquer the dark night, an inevitable spiritual right of passage and emptying obstacle. Yet that is not as was to be.
In the dark night does one encounter brightest light, exchanging your fumbling for caresses by the warmest knight. For to with, the passionate and the compassionate are one, just One.
And here we have the mystic’s song: Love is the light in my darkness, warmth is the darkness of my soul’s longing.