from this moment til the dawn

the light of all that is true. here in the darkness now. we have this epiphany, this glory until the morning sun exposes a new reality. was it there?

from this moment in the wee hours of the night, time not realized til the actualization of now, until that harsh beam of light wakes us from a dreaming sleep... we have these next few hours to hold on to that truth of the night, the events of what happened. the connection that was made. these are precious hours, disturbed only by sleep and the progression of time.

can we keep it? and how?

motets in the morning

listening to motets in the early morning sunlight is an experience i can't do justice to describe, but i can prescribe it as a most enlightening way to begin your day. palestrina and a cup of tea makes for a coy smile before breakfast. this is happiness.

the death of a long dark night makes way for the birth of a second chance. new inspiration. reconciliation with light and life.

everyone has a someone else. we somehow choose to love the one just out of reach.

i know not the joys that lie ahead, nor the tragedies that i will have to face, but in this moment of music out of voice, of light out of sunlight, a shaft, a note, warmth, a song... i know only that i am in communion with Christ, my Lord.

the still point in the turning world

i take delight in seeing words scrawled across a page– whether or not they yield coherence– as long as they prompt the assumption of mysterious prose. (such delight i must trade for the satisfying click of keys and legible type)

i am also growing increasingly fond of fall– as the air chills, and it becomes easier to breathe... just for a moment before the cold tightens the chest. the red trees, the orange leaves and the bluer sky- the scent of a season changing... the everything that comes with memory: beautiful and terrible as it is– a curse but so welcomed when you can subconsciously be reminded of happiness. the secret hideaway where no one can ever find you– the trapdoor to the crawlspace of memory (the only real secret passage i ever had): the mind. imagination. rather, memory of imagination– for, like childhood, it is gone now.

memory is why i am here now. for here is where the memories i wish to be my future live: the sea, the quaint houses, the windy streets lined with unnessary shops, the ships.

time past and time future,
what might have been and what has been
point to one end, which is always present

this is a place of my childhood imagination, where i always dreamed to be. this is where memory manifests, where reality is some twist of fate that has united my past with my present. where the future is a continued manifestation of all i have always wished it to be. here. now. all is always now.