breath
Imagine a room made up of the dust left over on the top of people's dreams. Scattered there haphazardly by the demons of doubt that were built by the fear of tommorrow and the regret of yesterday.
Time passes there just as it does in all places. Dust piles up and over and shifts itself into little rudded hallows that sometimes resemble the faces of some once-famous Italian celebrity or a random package of corn curls. Chance is at play, as is all the forces of power behind talent, ability and faith. The dust of dreams mocks our training, for even the best trained soldier can fall on his sword in an accident...this Chance knows well enough to be bold.
There's a secret stash hidden under these layers and layers of piled-on dream dust. A hidden quiet thing that has nothing to trumpet it's existence, and is only suggested by the fact that without it nothing stirs. God lives in the details, but it is this secret hidden wonder that lives in the detail's detail. It can be both God's eyeballs and Her eyelid, with it She can see or She can be blinded. If you're ever in doubt what the secret is, ask only the crazed monster that stares back at you in well-cleaned windowpanes.
Breath here in this dusty room and you cough and cough and cough. The dream dust covers you. The secret hidden thing pulses a dull low thud once every two million trillion years, or every one of time's heartbeats. We but flicker and flash like hot oil on a pan. The universe is the kitchen and we are not even the seasoning. We carry the hidden thing in the dark room of dream dust in our pocket's, in our robes, and in the soft folded flesh of our dissapointments.
Let it out. Set it free. Let is roam up and over the walls of doubt and stir the dust up into heaven. If God will only sometimes see us, and is sometimes hidden from us, we must choke her out of her cave with the dream dust we fly out to Her. Let Her not be comfortable with dark caves and safe places. Make war with the designs of war. Wake up from the hallow places where the faces of celebrity inhabit.
Find someplace warm, wet, and home. Stake your soul on it, and plant as much seed as you will. Make war on the designs of war. Let us not be forsaken.
Let us breath.
Imagine a room made up of the dust left over on the top of people's dreams. Scattered there haphazardly by the demons of doubt that were built by the fear of tommorrow and the regret of yesterday.
Time passes there just as it does in all places. Dust piles up and over and shifts itself into little rudded hallows that sometimes resemble the faces of some once-famous Italian celebrity or a random package of corn curls. Chance is at play, as is all the forces of power behind talent, ability and faith. The dust of dreams mocks our training, for even the best trained soldier can fall on his sword in an accident...this Chance knows well enough to be bold.
There's a secret stash hidden under these layers and layers of piled-on dream dust. A hidden quiet thing that has nothing to trumpet it's existence, and is only suggested by the fact that without it nothing stirs. God lives in the details, but it is this secret hidden wonder that lives in the detail's detail. It can be both God's eyeballs and Her eyelid, with it She can see or She can be blinded. If you're ever in doubt what the secret is, ask only the crazed monster that stares back at you in well-cleaned windowpanes.
Breath here in this dusty room and you cough and cough and cough. The dream dust covers you. The secret hidden thing pulses a dull low thud once every two million trillion years, or every one of time's heartbeats. We but flicker and flash like hot oil on a pan. The universe is the kitchen and we are not even the seasoning. We carry the hidden thing in the dark room of dream dust in our pocket's, in our robes, and in the soft folded flesh of our dissapointments.
Let it out. Set it free. Let is roam up and over the walls of doubt and stir the dust up into heaven. If God will only sometimes see us, and is sometimes hidden from us, we must choke her out of her cave with the dream dust we fly out to Her. Let Her not be comfortable with dark caves and safe places. Make war with the designs of war. Wake up from the hallow places where the faces of celebrity inhabit.
Find someplace warm, wet, and home. Stake your soul on it, and plant as much seed as you will. Make war on the designs of war. Let us not be forsaken.
Let us breath.
niobe:
