I dreamt last night that I was dreaming. An abstract place, dreaming within a dream, sleeping within sleep. Claire de Lune played distractingly somewhere within this place and I went to find the melody. Because within our most secret hearts is an eternal labyrinth--and we can be encountered within it, on a quest for beauty. It is a ceaseless, persistent desire, engrossing us further within the maze. With riveting hopes to land upon the treasure of perfectly serene splendor, we paint, and we doodle, and we write, and we play music, and we read, and we dream of existent and fantasized wishes, and we express our longing through appreciated, apparent arts. And they are untouchable.
In this way, in this pattern of concealment and discovering, in this joyous, secretive mystery, beauty is God. We can listen or perceive or glimpse the presence of an art so overwhelming and intoxicating. Spasmodically, the revelation of Him is an internal explosion of nirvana, till the individual can no longer be. Yet, periodically, the absence or the striving and hunt for Him, is a deeply humbling break-down; our intrinsic needs grow hungry, and willowy without his face or his heart or some detection of His presence, or just a dream within a dream of Him.
Lord, I press on in this sleep-within-sleeping labyrinth, wanting.
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