I do not believe that these words have the power which my soul would vest in them. For in reality, there is only a truth which none of us shall ever compute. And these words are no nearer that truth – have no capacity for uncovering it – than the voices which fill our delusional minds day upon day. We walk as if certain of the light which guides our way, but lumens bounce from objects without reason. They are as devoid of purpose as mankind. We live because we must bounce into and out of the world which the light has bathed for longer than all conception. Yet there is one entity of a divinity which has the capability of dispersing and sowing the impenetrable truth in ways which make it glimmer in the light of our tired steps. We must of course mean love. Love is the reflection of sentience upon an immense and groaning universe; gargantuan ilk and far beyond the smallness of man. Man was given, or more accurately, has uncovered the sorcery of love – its ability to pull in the unthinkably large cosmos straight to the eye of the soul as it binds to, and discards and seeks others with which to assimilate in the throngs of touch and feeling. How pure and yet how fragile this entity of love is, or rather how flimsy our apparatus for encompassing and immortalising it is. We know love by the blinding nature of its light, by the fire of its fury, the tremor of its hunger and the randomness of its creation and departure; ever-flitting in and out of our cognition and our belief; weak in the constant gravity of time and memory; and moreover, equally strong in the secret way it restructures our consciousness at the quantum level. If love could never be lost, it could never be gained, and if it could never change or never die, then it could never be created anew or suffused through our waking confusions of agony and joy. Love is the fixity of transience and the passage of infinity through bounded lives. It has no end.

Copyright Kosmogonic 2018

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