I now know what it is I feel.
The stirring that swells my soul to the brink of exhaustion (or is it extinction), while it threatens the entanglement of reality, is the core of my life's force. For all it does posses has come from the Spirit He created and the wondrous growth it has tasted from the magnification it has enjoyed - fed by the gifts of site.
The unrelenting zeal of this force to find refuge is simply its rage for immortality. For far too long, suppressed, misguided, unknown and starving, it languished, surging in this hour, to certify it does not pass unknown.
For it has always sustained the keys of a genuine wonderment and would not be thwarted. As it feels it's vessel in this hour in eternity crumble, weakened, poisoned, it fearfully rears up in prominence. Absently terrorized in desperation, panicked into an inimitable interweave of flight and fight. Barely in balance of a gnarled success at the cost of its purpose.
Taxing so many, the unwary, the closest, without a means to comfort them with its vision. The bafflement enshrouding them, further clouding its own intent. Clumsy staggerings in syncopated rhythms, off-handedly seeking its stride while the untouched shake their heads. Contempt, betrayal, sadness, pity, abhorrence, deception, dejection, rejection, vengeance, all these, with little compassion, empathy, hope and support, fill the periphery, All to feed the Spirits desperation for the fulfillment, the destiny, the fortune, of its gifts, it's creation.
Part and parcel preach this as selfishness, the Dark Ones claustrophobic compression of the hearts of today. How could his grip unleash such depth? Is his art so pure that even the unwilling would be crushed in the mirage? So it has been written.
But (the ever prominent caveat), darkness never felt so pure, It could not be the manic insights of the outcasts that evil enlist as their beacon to distraction. It is more seemly these voices uncover more of his deception than he can squelch. But such unsettling reminders are dismissed as madness, ignored of the greater life held within, ignored by the mass of mediocrity.
These forces intrude into this Spirits mission, and so little time available too. Together their alliance slowly dismember creation's gift. I pray He will protect me, sustain my heart, and pour his Spirit upon mine. For the blessed gifts that so torment will blossom only within His. Even there, so sacred, can dimness of time destroy fullness, For everything has its season, it is His in design. But it is His circumstance that time splashes through, and it is these droplets we are.
Stand aside or take my hand. Do so for all thus stricken. You will be embellished in the display of this gleam. Answer it that it may be sustained and not glimmer into dusk, utter darkness. All in this share, then touch too this gist. Perhaps to then see it also.
As desperately this profane trap presses this failing vessel, the Spirits desire to touch scrambles the anxious frustration onto a nearly incapacitating frenzy. An understanding lends a peace, but does nothing to soothe.
But that in itself is a consolation. Of course, what might be really needed is relief. (Release?)
March 29, 1995