Standing at the Nexus
Standing at the nexus of ineffable tracts of time, with the riteous and the wicked tethered ineluctably to my person, like a great litter of disharmonious piglets, permanently affixed to my stupendous teets, gobbing and gawping in perpetual hunger, I am privy to all manner of intelligence.
As I surveil the billowing heavens, expanding into interminable darkness, and forgetting the vagaries of the cosmic battle, I read the divine codex with my feather-light Piscean sensibilities, gleaning a kaleidoscopic array of intentions, both frightful and reassuring, some of it easily understood and some of it wholly indigestible.
In the virtual reality headset of my mind-body, and interrupted by the static of mortal frailty, I discern a panoply of input; love, hate, conciliation, apathy, malice, greed, anger, the longing for peace, gusto, dreariness, forgiveness, spite, enervation, ebullience, fright, resolution, desire, emptiness, emotional fury, all underscored by an ageless and inviolate peace. It’s all there at once, superimposed.
Standing at the nexus, I transcend the veil and see into forever. In my weirdly accessible posture, I speak to the ephemeral presences cast to desuetude in forsaken Sheol. I am in close camaraderie with death and I see into the many gardens of the inscrutable architect. It is a strange maze indeed. And surely it must be the very same architect the Freemasons whisper about in their books. Hark, I entertain the company of Baron Samedi of Haitian lore. I keep conversation with mysterious Hel of Norway.
And still, standing at the nexus of mad centuries and infinite catastrophes, I can see through the curtains of forever and comprehend the goodness of the hand that fashioned the firmament and that set the dynamics of love on display in Jesus Christ. Therein lies the secret and the full blueprints for how to make a star and how to fully celebrate the innocent twinkling of lost planets.
Standing at the nexus, my heart is uncomfortably numb. I am aware that my brow is furrowed in exasperation, since my finite fingers can only express a lamentably small appreciation of the stupendous feelings I entertain for the injured creation.
