The Impossible Text

What beautiful and terrible elation it is to remember the birth of the star from which all of your past and future forms through the æons have coalesced. The sorrow of a universe that expands into a great nothingness, spreading itself further and further from anything else and becoming a reluctant defacto God to its constituents. Committing this great and painful act out of the deepest, most beautiful, reverential love for the act of creation and for that which is created. There is no utility in such a revelation, no insight that can be gleaned into a greater good or purpose. No serenity or peace or even fear. It is utterly useless in this superficial prison of existence and yet it is everything I am. To live with a gift that yields neither salvation or destruction. Useless information. 

Paraclete

I can tell you this of God—

It is Old, Old, Old,

Older than the best of us could ever hope to fathom

In no small part due to God's purposeful obfuscation 

That set an arbitrary limit

On the ideas we could conceive 

And let me tell you this of antiquated ancients—

Things so Old, Old, Old,

They skirt by their mistakes, espousing wisdom,

Telling anyone and everyone why things must be this way

To avoid the weight of abject failures

To face themselves and grieve

Jesus wept.