I want to BE. I want the light of the universe’s stars to spread out from my fingertips. That quivering, hidden — what is it? breath? pulse? light? song? — that thing buried in the center of my being, that thing that will out — more than out; grow, expand, I becoming myself because its wings, unfurled, unveil my being.
The song of a thousand cherubim nests in silent cacophony within me. I know for what I have always been destined, and it fills me with an unbearable longing and a fear that I will lose myself in the greatness — or if not in the greatness, in my very smallness.
And where do I begin, now? Where to find and sustain that being, so fragile as its manifestation is? How to be faithful to it, without losing it in the search? How to keep fear from drowning it?
Imago dei — I know not of what I speak. I know not what utter, consuming fire of God lies in this heart, waiting to break forth in dazzling fury and rout these shadows I mistake for home. Because of what I am-not, I cannot grasp what I am. I fear it; no, desire it. I seek it and I lose it. It is all I live for and the thing that I imagine hounds me unto death. Yet if the shadows would but finally flee, I know I would see my love as I always knew it, never to lose it again.