perhaps it is slipping by.

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 I’m not sure if I am to do this, love.

To dream beyond this beingness with God. To be anything afterwards. I live my days in so much pain now, moments of service taking me away from this intense remembrance. Yet otherwise, I’m in deep contemplation, taken away into a realm of brilliant lights where the truth is seen. There is no in between.


The spring of a peach tree is seen for the death and the ending lurking underneath. Oh, how I trembled when I saw the ripeness— I knew it was the end of a journey just begun. The leaves stained in crimson already, bowing down in servitude. How death lives so brightly at the zenith of aliveness somehow haunts me.


I’m not sure anymore if I’d be able to serve you. Only if God wills it, then it will be done. But if this world is not the time, then what am I do with a beingness that has left itself? How am I to be at home with you if a moment of awakening makes me flee to the truth?


I do not want to hurt you. On this mountain, I only want to meet the sky. To embrace you, I need to sink down awhile to climb hand-in-hand, in the storm, with unperturbed faith. 


I’m sorry.

going with grace in an inscrutable world.

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