An angel once gave me a pen, and I wrote three poems: one about hope, one about despair, and the third about my dreaming. I read them over but just one time, when the words consumed the pages in fire, and all that was left was ashes of what had been. I wondered why it was that such ephemeral things were given to us, fleeting glimpses of what is higher, and then forevermore there is nothing but burned remains. The whole of all mystery is, I know, too big for us to see it all at one time, and that we must be thankful for any snatches of clarity granted us in this short time within this world — but why must all things end? It seems to me, somewhere, that this destiny shared by all of us was meant to be so, but the lesson of why I cannot comprehend.
An angel once gave me a pen, and I wrote a tragedy: there was a hero, a villain, and in the end, everyone died. When I finished writing, the ink bled into the pages as if the paper itself were crying, and nothing was intelligible within the manuscript anymore. I wondered why it was that God made pain, or was it the devil that did it? There are many things that I do not understand, why the world is this one way it is, and not the countless others that I and others of my ilk have imagined — and then I thought, I am not helpless. If I truly have a vision to impart to the forces that be, I can make something of this place.... Then I saw it, just for a moment: even pain will end, some day, somehow; and how glorious then those who withstood this that once was, overcame the night.
lydia
7:36am friday, 5th march
You were writing in the Book of Life - it will remain there although you have erased its traces for this world
Rich
7:04am saturday, 6th march
People are that they might have joy. without pain there is no joy. we do not seek pain, it comes naturally, if it were pain people desired, we would seek joy. clarity is so much better if youre confused to start with
lydia
Rich