It always strikes me as astonishing when I read a passage, just floating by in a whim, that pierces the heart of the human condition. These verbal descriptions, sequence of small images with meaning, cut to the heart of intangible feeling. I can't explain the wash of...happiness, that rushes over me when I read or hear a small segment of relation, a blurb of well-though prose, to which I can proclaim, "I know".
Why do we long to relate? Shouldn't we know that what I feel is what you feel is what he or she feels. No. That is not the case. And so some of us search, and yet others grope blindly and briefly in the dark. They never quite find what could easily be a start.
Language is new: maybe a hundred-thousand years old. But the emotions infusing my flesh, driving my heart, warming my loins, affecting my very ambulation is as ancient as the first replication unknown. To survive, to love. To give yourself.
God is telling me to leave this alone. Cause as ancient as my yearning for you, your modern ways and shallow haze... all simple praise will do you fine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment