Journal Entry, October 1, 2003

It is this moment, sunset, the hour when silence is most golden, that I pen this poem. Above and all around me the trees are whispering, confiding in the autumn air a secret long lost to humanity. It is something otherworldly, unattainable by mortal means, something still sought after by those very few who dare to bear the weight of transcendence on their already starving hearts. They, who know that sacred truth is there, may feel its rapture without ever being able to comprehend its intricacies, are the chosen, the dreamers, the beautiful, and the damned. Still I am returning faithfully to that threshold, to hope to glimpse through that door the final truth, the one that will unlock the secrets guarded from us by nature,as if we human beings would always be too ignorant to understand, or even care. Pure poetry. And that’s all there is to this breathing silence, this precise moment hung suspended out of time, the closest to enlightenment the soul may reach from its human shell, until the enigma of eternity comes to pull us out from ourselves and place us, inevitably, among the stars.