Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting

Why are we continually at war with ourselves? Sometimes I feel as though truth really isn't elusive after all, it is I who am eluding it. Living is like holding a prisim in your hands, each new day catching a glimmer that was a little different than the last, a flush of yellow that was crimson, blue where it was white. Aristotle had a point, I suppose, in that something must last... Something has to be eternal or everything would fall apart at the seams.

Life is a comedy to those who think and a tragedy to those who feel.

I have loved God ever, I think, but I hate the catagorey that it puts me in. Believing in God feels a bit like believing in the Easter Bunny, it shuffles me in with door-to-door Bible salesmen and those annoying poets that keep rhyming "dove" with "heaven above" and "God's love". Yet God is so much more than this, I know, I know, I know. And I have loved him ever.

When I was younger I used to wield faith in Christ like a cudgel, triumphantly bashing and blasting my way through other people's crisis of faith and moments of doubt. I remember once I wrote to a friend that God is everywhere, even in between your fingers. I didn't know what I meant then, but I am thinking of it now.

In the next room there is a world famous flutist, warming up for a performance. It is a haunting, full sound that breathes colors and flavors and feelings. Most of the time, though, there is no music. What do we do then, I wonder? What do we do when there are things to be done and fatigue to deal with and love that's lost? When there isn't any music? On those "Monday Mornings"?
There is a lifetime, in that answer.