like some sweet-tasting secret that we have always known
but have since forgotten the taste of
like the sounds on the tips of our tongues,
we run after that which is inside of us, and a little bit ahead of us, always.
there are beautiful certainties that exist in this world of ours, outside of the realm of understanding- beautiful permanences in places that stand above and outside the grip of language, shape, and definition.
but you see,
in and around and between all of our clumsy inarticulations,
we are made to breathe, and in so doing, made to take in truth itself - to swallow a language that we can never speak on our own.
it is the never-ending song echoing in the caves of our hearts and running through the trees in our dreams. it makes it's melodies in our wind chimes; in our bedroom doors it marches on. it sends its song through old cans and tall grass. it fills our lungs in one moment, and in the next, runs from them in victorious laughter. in its old-age, it creaks around corners and in open places. it is a familiar friend to this place.
it remembers a time when we were not, though now is not that time.
it was and is and is to come.
and we are oh, so forgetful.
teach us to Breathe, and in so doing,
to take in that Great Mystery
which belongs to no man but is for every man.
*currently listening to Paper Route
*picture taken from here