Prime Mover

Leave a man to him and his words and telescopic terrains will open, as splendid as the midwinter constellations sprayed in a barbarous sublimity across the sky, with the serene orb of Jupiter hanging unflickering over the land. They tell us language is but a cruel game, an endless warren of pinball deflectors fit for Ariadne but not the sensibilities of mortals. But it is only when we realize that the greatest Catharsis is that which exists in the fecund abyss of solitude, the paradise found in the stamp on our souls, that we can wrestle and mold our words like primal clay, Craft cosmos from chaos in the folding mirror of our consciences. All our words are symbols; pregnant indicators of some untouchable abstraction, ideas too deep for the anchors of voyagers and too high for the staffs of mountain climbers; Let us conquer the earth to salvage the truth; let us try and snatch it from the sight of God. Even so, that actual essence which we have always sensed, which we try to reach through the quest for the thrice-blessed stylus to write indelible code upon the chalky slate of our hearts, is unattainable when we act rather than receive. True aloneness is openness to purification; to infusion of the symbol with alabaster plate. The lighthouse is a greater relief to the wave-whipped sailor when the shore glistens with freshly-fallen showers, Throwing the glare into wide-open pupils: So it is when we allow the loftiest and earthiest of truths To immerse our thoughts and their verbal accidens In the baptismal font of infinite regeneration.