Unjust.
The universe is so unjust.
http://www.kaleo.org/news/uhm-s-annie-runland-killed-by-truck-accident/article_d4abe2ea-ae55-11e3-bd2c-001a4bcf6878.html
I'm so sorry, Annie. So sorry.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
s u s p e n d
w o u n d t a n g l e a g o n y c h o k e b l o o d b r e a k g r a v e s u f f e r d r o w n b r e a t h t e a r d e a t h h e a v y a c r i d f a t a l h a t e d e s t r o y s o u n d d a r k n e s s l i g h t a c h e s t a b h e a r t b u r s t s u n g r a c e l i f e b e a u t y h o p e s o u l t r a n s c e n d f l o a t b l o o m f r e e h e a l m e n d e t h e r e a l a i r s i n g t r a n s l u c e n t b i r t h r a d i e n t b l o s s o m g e n t l e f a t h e r m o t h e r n u r t u r e h o m e r e s t p e a c e l o v e
fragments
4/4/13
Sometimes silence is the sweetest
music. The turning spokes of my
bike, the night wind blowing, the gentle hum
of faraway cars. This is the music of memory.
It connects deeply to something I cannot
possibly describe. Like the passing footsteps
of a stranger, this thought lingers but then is
gone, and I am lost from that fragrance
only to be found by this present world. I keep
biking, because the movement somehow helps
my thoughts flow.
. . .
On this corner, the light glows strangest. It is
soft in the blanket of the night, the air
gently pulsing with a quietness that
heals my heart...
. . .
God, was I Your dream? That
You desired me before creation
burst in birth and light?
And how, in earth's mosaic, patterns of faces,
have I been found exceptional — unique?
If my life is the result of two unified
bodies, a mass of cells and neurons and atoms,
a product of aleatorical picking when my
genes and chromosomes mingled... but You
say You thought of me, You think still?
Who am I? That You would watch me
grow, bones in my skin and knots
in my hair, bruised shins and dirt-stained knees?
What are the feelings You feel in Your
heart? If I am made in Your likeness, and
my nostalgia brings me pain, does Your heart
ache with beauty too? Is my longing pointing
to a deeper truth, when You say I was
made for knowing, to be known, to be loved?
Sometimes silence is the sweetest
music. The turning spokes of my
bike, the night wind blowing, the gentle hum
of faraway cars. This is the music of memory.
It connects deeply to something I cannot
possibly describe. Like the passing footsteps
of a stranger, this thought lingers but then is
gone, and I am lost from that fragrance
only to be found by this present world. I keep
biking, because the movement somehow helps
my thoughts flow.
. . .
On this corner, the light glows strangest. It is
soft in the blanket of the night, the air
gently pulsing with a quietness that
heals my heart...
. . .
God, was I Your dream? That
You desired me before creation
burst in birth and light?
And how, in earth's mosaic, patterns of faces,
have I been found exceptional — unique?
If my life is the result of two unified
bodies, a mass of cells and neurons and atoms,
a product of aleatorical picking when my
genes and chromosomes mingled... but You
say You thought of me, You think still?
Who am I? That You would watch me
grow, bones in my skin and knots
in my hair, bruised shins and dirt-stained knees?
What are the feelings You feel in Your
heart? If I am made in Your likeness, and
my nostalgia brings me pain, does Your heart
ache with beauty too? Is my longing pointing
to a deeper truth, when You say I was
made for knowing, to be known, to be loved?
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