2025-11-14 Journal Entry

Purple clouds criss cross elven skies and words come go backwards forwards in time space for all we know. Something indescribable that flows down my body when I close my eyes, like the whole world ceasing to spin just for me and cutting through the skin all at once. Guitar strings speak to the unspeakable, to the way the world turns and turns and stops and turns again in reverse, how all of life shimmers and cries out to those who refuse to listen. How great is Our god, here, how great is the world and how great is this love even when refused, how great it is to be alone in here and still breathing and sitting and crying and loving and reflecting back all that there can be.

We think that by being here we bring the whole world in tow, how bold of us to think that by looking we somehow freeze the world into thing-ness. We are not the thing that freezes but the thing that is frozen. The whole universe is like our parent, giving us a little slice because it’s what we can handle. We are the children helping our parents make dinner by stirring the already-stirred or by breaking the eggs that must be broken. It all happens anyways, all spreads and churns and loves us back even when we push it all away.

The words in my mind are not words but feelings like fine silver or the edges of the sky, so far away but also so right-here, so immediate that I feel I can never reach them. I wish so much to know this feeling so I can give it to you. That is why I wish to know: I want to package up what you mean to me so I can show you. Again we are like children bringing our shoddy presents wide-eyed to our parents, saying to them, look at how I love you, how broken and messy it all is, and the world looks at us in care and nods, saying I love you to the moon and back. These are our scribbled drawings pinned to the refrigerator, these words we share, and yet we say to each other how beautiful it is what you’ve made as if it describes a grain of sand on the beach of our experience. I come into the shop and someone asks me how I’m doing and we play each our little charades and our game of dress-up when within us roils that most impossible spell. It is the subject of the ages, all life a monument to this and this and again this, to look each other in the eye and for even a moment understand the world behind them. I hope you see how hard I’m trying.

But maybe we can be better. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed in these ages gone past, some in our letters and our songs and the wild dance of a child, in our winding streets and battle cries and our love poems, maybe there’s something in all of those. Or maybe there’s nothing, maybe all we have is for all our years to try and try again, to be crushed by awe and the impossible nature of it all, that anything is really happening. Maybe we’ll see in all this turning that none of it need have happened at all, that the turnings and dances and songs echo out and somewhere cease, and in this we’ll find our love. We’ll be crushed and have such love for it. We’ll be better for it. Our backs will broken by impossibility and from there the love will shine through, shine through from the cracks in our bones and in our blood and in all the heartache that need not happen but did. And maybe you will see all of this and remember too how we fought and hated and despised and blamed and I hope you forgive me for that for I have done it too and did it then. How even then we played dress-up but didn’t know all the rules that we had constructed for ourselves, didn’t know what shadows we cast. And so I hope in the end our understanding, our free-fall, brings us back to it all, to what’s happening here at the end of the world, to the sun and stars and this and this and this.