You may not always see me but the truer portion of my heart will always be behind you.
There might be nothing.
There might be something.
And time is the only coin we use to gamble our lives.
Bet there is nothing, and despite the value of that coin increasing or decreasing in tangible value, the bet on nothing is, by definition, insubstantial.
Bet there is something, and all bets are off, for the bet itself negates the ‘something’ that only has value, worth believing in, if it substantiated with trust. The reward of faith is a joy that arises from receiving validation that all suffering and hardships were not in vain. That against the odds of survival, in a sudden plunge and impeding impact, something provides the knowledge that we will be caught and given a soft landing. This joy can only arise, if the knowledge is present before the fall. And despite this truth there is still a gamble and time is still our only coin, of which, to place any bet win, lose or draw is without a win or reward. But without the gamble there is no time to value, the mystery which exercises faith, there is only bets on nothing or something and neither carry trust.
To this day, I have never walked into Mass because I wanted to. I attend mass because of a sense of obligation, feeling that if I did not go, I would regret it. This regret is not due to some threat that I would be condemned to eternal damnation but that I would miss out. I know this is true because once I do fight the resistances instilled from my childhood – resenting being forced to go to some boring lecture with no guidance – I participate with a full heart. Once inside, I experience a love when I sing the songs, I feel an uplifting joy in the music and I strive to listen, really listen. This means taking the insight and not just apply the knowledge of truth to the troubled world at large as if I am innocent of such charges. But that whatever I might find right or wrong externally is perhaps something I should apply to myself internally.
Confessions of a Storyteller
The cacophony of noise,
Then and now,
Is pressed into one
Sound, but an un-why speaks;
Veiled auguries make
Fresh the scarred near-miss.
On the ledge of the eternal pause,
vision may re-engineer safeguards but
musky entrails and footsteps on wrought pavement,
apprehends; gripping, first clause.
With powerful magistrate,
The litter of remorse, becomes
the means to back off another bad choice,
And still live to tell about it.
A life complicated with
Circling hoof prints,
And leaves that don’t die,
But wither, melt; perform a
yellowish ritual of doubt.
Given a part,
Not yet cast in the role,
the noise sets leeway perennial shifts
Bringing the eyes are upon you.
The un-why relates a topic of distortions,
Hefted with all that cannot be undone, but
Weave textiles of lace to capture wind.
An ardent embrace, bellows the wealth of relief
That doesn’t die, but wither, melt, and
Perform a golden ritual of doubt,
To where I had been so wrong.