Monday, October 10, 2011

Number Thirty Four

Here in the darkest regions, where we can't know the truth, we sense a weight and power that cannot be contained by language.  Or thought.  Something transmitted by light.  But beyond the threshold of ordinary vision.

The galaxies emit that light, a visual echo of the big bang.  The light at the beginning, the first willed explosion, suggests the source.  As the universe expands, each galaxy more and more alone, the light speaks with less clarity.  Less remembrance.

The rock we live on flies further and further from the truth.  No telescope can find the source.  It is too late; we are too far away.  We are alone.

And all that is left is the next choice; the next act of will.  Out here in the night we look for the truth that comes from doing or not doing.  As if the light, the source, can be seen somehow in every intention.  Every act.

1 comment:

  1. Love is the light of this seeming.

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