We are far worse than we ever dared to believe; each filled to the brim with corruption and hypocrisy, especially on stages we construct and call divine.
We are loved more than we ever dared to believe; pause to look out the window and past your eyes, pause at the branch of the tree delicately kissing the sky.
What is so similar a portrait to our soul yet nothing alike? What possesses beauty more transcendent than the reaches of our pride?
While I search for the answer, for an analogy so complete as to map out the
constellations of our cells, there remains a grounded fact upon which I dwell:
I don’t have room.
There is an inverse relationship to the amount of love I carry for my neighbor, and the amount of love I carry for the whole world wide.
I find myself unable to maneuver the intimate hallways of my life without shutting out humanity and all its strife.
I find myself unable to call upon ideals transcendent without giving up the patience and care upon which my intimate relationships are dependent.
There is an other to this puzzle. There is a solution without. There is a bridge between my fertile comprehension and my permeating doubt.
I suppose this is why the notion of faith makes me want for nothing except to step outside. To listen to what dialogue I can between the branches and the sky.