> From this.

All is vanity, and chasing after wind. All these words have been written before, I tell you nothing new under the sun, for what is written shall ever be written again, in as many cycles as there are years upon years, as we live under the turning of the great Wheel. What hope have we, to mean something before we are scattered into the winds, like the dust we are, and never gathered together again? Chasing after wind. Vanity. Dust in the wind. Airs. What meaning have those whose works are remembered, for do they not also go to the grave? Mostly we are shivering in a Brownian daydream, and then we are gone, and after those who remember us are also gone, so we are blown away as inconsequential infinitesimals.

Or shall we believe that there is more? Can we conceivably have the notion that the God of small things listens to the cricket’s chirp, to know every fluctuation of temperature in every crevice, and what transpires in the smallest capillaries of our bloodstream? To Him there is no vanity. To Him, who knows from where the wind comes, and to where it goes, life is not a poor player. We must follow where He goes, and we will perhaps arrange these written words anew, find meaning even in the dregs of our language. Surely in the attempt, to deny the entropy another minute of the heart’s erosion.

We must to understand where the meaning is to be gathered, out there in the vasty show of streetlamps and buses and pigeons. True love, free: ask and it shall be given to thee. Free love, true: ask and it shall be given to you. True love, after all, is to be found: I am found! I found it! Newly discovered, having been there from time immemorial. And just everywhere: past, travelers through the corridors of memory; present, for those who have eyes to see; and future, in the most solemn hope; even in the very imagining, in the dreaming — so to join in the tune our spirits, to the time of the grand and awesome song of creation.

Leave Your Response

You must be logged in to post a comment.


The Great Blasphemy