Out of the Twilight

Out of the twilight of my reverie, and just beyond the door of consciousness, never sinister, it still cannot accommodate the good. Forever nameless, tugging at me for a singular because it can. Though searching suns and endless skies will radiate upon my face forever, they will not illuminate the wonder where it lies, where all the power of such pure truth merely is, and of its own amen. From the twilight comes the sign the ages stored for us. It comes encumbered by a flashing brevity of insight unexplained and undeserved, afforded by a realm of mystery that we have always needed-- from which we always turn away. As I must do again, as humankind, (and goaded by a summons of sufficient subtlety to charm a heavenly power) to which I would always acquiesce. I might ascribe to it the celebrated still, small voice. Silent it is, and yet no friend of mine- no enemy I may presume to love or hate; it rages at me, thunders day by hour, eternity by microsecond, across the little hills of time, and echoes back. I am its compliant prisoner, obsessed with meditative posture that I take and then assume as some quixotic heir. God, you say? How dare you exercise presumption that an unknown, guiding force might so pervade a consciousness as dull as mine with such uncertainty? How dare you even try to understand? Leave me. Let me chew upon my echoes; they alone may serve me infinitely beyond all dreams I hear about, beyond all sleep-drugged reachers-forth that wrestle with the idols of their minds. ~