Our eyes saw no need to show us this, but there are two worlds laid out on top of one another to form our one. What part of God was alive died for this one to give us our first fertilizer and seeds. But the energetic dimension laid on top of it, God is very much alive in, and only able to manipulate and make changes imperceptibly through the microscopic pinholes of electrons. There is a God. And you pray to it with every choice you make, every step you take, the things you call dinner, the memories you have of others, and the stories they tell of you.
God is still building, and the human being is a special sort of sentimental brick. This isn’t designed for happiness, heaven is not a reward, and hell is probably the furthest you can get from failure.
Nothing happens without purpose. God did not give up its form because it was bored. I can only tell you that while energy moves and gravity pulls the universe is churning toward something. And we are not an accident. We are not a frivolous experience. We are a tool. We are resource.
Being a good person is like being a good hammer.
Study yourself. Get to know your form. Take measurement.
You will find whose grip you were shaped for.
You won’t miss the nail anymore.
Flat winds rattle doors and whistle hum outside the window. In fact, about ten or so windows. These Carolina room layouts. Traced along ridge lines just across the river. Bought for the view. Built for it too. The grass crunched like summertime this afternoon. The air only cooled around four o’clock and even then, not much. High of seventy five. What a time to be alive.
There are not enough words to describe the universe.
There aren’t even enough to describe us.
I want to be a writer.
And I am telling you to be wary of words.
Not of any one in particular.
But just feeling like there are already enough.
And that if words fail to describe something, it isn’t in existence.
Which is an irrational and divisive and intentionally manipulative position.
This whole mess is clay, right up until we cook it.
And it will become anything we make. So long as we keep cooking.
It has been raining for just about a billion years. But dirt still behaves as if it never saw it coming. Now that is love. Or at the very least. That’s something. Mud sliding down mountainsides and rocks choking valleys and water swallowing high school gymnasiums.
How has it all not settled down by now?
After all of this time, how is the definition of simple