These pages are full of thoughts of ideal love, given a form of permanence (albeit it in limited scope) through words.  I have always been an idealist, and I don’t see that changing.  I am hoping to shift topics one day though.  For to sing of love, while a beautiful pursuit, is incomplete.  For me it feels like singing with a plank through my chest.  While it would seem a simple matter to remove the plank, recover on my own, and sing with my full voice, I cannot bring myself to do it.  I would rather die, wounded in this way, than speak one word falsely.  But should this plank be removed, through some miracle, the sky itself would no longer be a limit, but the stars instead become our backyard.  Words of life, healing, and wondrous things will mix in with those already familiar to me, creating a resonant chorus, where now there is only a still, small, voice.

I debated creating a new blog when returning to writing, afraid of the depths and past depths being revealed.  I decided to revisit old pastures though, and as I reread and remembered; I realized I had remained unchanged, at the heart of things.  So I stand as a wounded remnant, on this sleeping giant, representing who I am, what I sense feel and think, and nothing else.


~ by songoflove on October 5, 2016.

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