I’m always grasping. Trying to retain some form. Painfully and desperately, I try to keep it, shape it, define it into permanence.
This longing for certainty, this anxiety and desire to be— like the statues unmoving, named and certain— to be something I know, forever, and ever and ever.
But our splendor is in our changing, in our ever shifting consciousness. The heart floods and becomes empty again. The breeze of autumn. The hot of summer. My blood on the rocks. The wound tender in infection. The scar I touch like a feather.
We are made in God’s knowing of ephemera, ever changing, ever fleeting. Undefined, and ephemeral forever, ever and ever.
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
I’m always grasping. Trying to retain some form. Painfully and desperately, I try to keep it, shape it, define it into permanence.
This longing for certainty, this anxiety and desire to be— like the statues unmoving, named and certain— to be something I know, forever, and ever and ever.
But our splendor is in our changing, in our ever shifting consciousness. The heart floods and becomes empty again. The breeze of autumn. The hot of summer. My blood on the rocks. The wound tender in infection. The scar I touch like a feather.
We are made in God’s knowing of ephemera, ever changing, ever fleeting. Undefined, and ephemeral forever, ever and ever.
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