What dreams may come...

This shall not make sense, but perhaps value may be found in the free flow of thought tonight...


Infinite shades of complexity? Subtle shadows gliding through the folds of memory?
How can we define that which passes through what is deeper than our conscious ability to control? Yet such things compel us, arrest us, occasionally stop us in our tracks.

A night falling into meditation of sorrows would be but a night. Weeping may last for that night, but joy comes in the morning. He who made the sunrise to follow folded the elaborate subtleties of the human psyche, and placed my joy there, beyond the reach of worlds.

Distant strains of a melody too complex to catch, yet the spirit listens and is moved. Dark tides sweep the shores of regret, yet the dawn is inevitable, and that sun will burn away doubt.

The yawning chasm that beckons cannot swallow my life which is hidden in Him who fills all, shall it devour the days of that life spent in the flat lands? Let the fire which He gives kindle those days into a streaming light of purpose. A beacon.

Surely soon the lessons learned in time will channel the time which passes so swiftly.
Spinning the wheels of purpose into a maelstrom of accomplishment, but no pause for rest.

The rest which comes but seeks the cessation of purpose, it seeks only itself.
May I rest rather in Him, resting as one whose labors have not ceased but increase.

The increasing brings purpose, yet the purpose brings increase, a cycle spinning forwards in time, spiraling as it advances, dimensions in dimension. It sums a life, totaling the moments spent and wasted, rested and labored, slept and spent.

The free play of the mind brings forth meaning which has yet no cast, which has not been formed into the structures that fit into a machine. The machine with cogs so tight, so cogent, so cohesive. Yet if the machine be neglected, the play will also perish.

That which is formed gives fullness, and that which is full inhabits the form. So formlessness is a nothingness. He is He without which nothing is strong, no thing is strong, but even nothing is not strong without Him, for all strength belongs to the unceasing source of energy which is energy unto itself.

Harmonies which take form, interplaying with being, drawing the inferences into sight, hiding the complexities behind syntheses of meaning. Becoming the pictures which dry the sound stiff, yet reverberate with its harmonics to begin the music again when another form is found. Flowing onward, never ceasing, bringing all to fulfillment within the web that is Seen. The Picture is painted, yet the Painter does not cease to paint. He who exists in eternal relation in only that which will always have been now also lends to our being that which is both complete and ever being completed. And the song does not end.

Shall the discord be resolved in a long, fiery burst through the pale, or by a grey, rippling drop into the strife? Let it be so now that the rhythm may not be delayed, for this meter should not tarry before the hill, lest the scroll be left there.

As the scroll unfolds, as the pages turn, as the keys advance and strings reverberate and the words are layed down as thickly as the dancing tune demands, let the pauses be merely the cessations which bring the rhythm to be.

Being is motion, motion is sound, sound is thought, thought is light, light is the word, and The Word is Being.

Let him who has ears, hear the sound of the Word, for the Word is moving to light the world's shadows.
Incendite Tenebris Mundi.

And the hour which will once have always been arriving comes, swiftly.

-Joseph