The light, too, is warmest

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.

Leave a Reply

Setting your napkin?

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.