Two people, they say,
live in worlds, one in each,
and when, as they say,
they collide, they can reach
a point of a breaking
When two people meet
When they stop trying to pretend,
that they have everything in common
except their humanity, and everything that comes along with it,
When they acknowledge
the sheer majesty of two wills
in one place, at once.
Then those worlds,
collide in rhythm and melody.
Two worlds were never two.
But two perceptions of one, as different as the color of each pair of eyes.
There were never two.
We are all the same.
But that we are different, divergent, distracted.
It is but that we are different, that we are all young in our own ways,
and old in others.
It is our differences
which are the glory
It is our separation
which is the beauty
It is Love, it is Heaven, it is that in which all hope lies.
It is God.
Pure, unbroken unity in all chromatic being.
Given one melody, all harmonies are implied.
But let us glory in our irrational superfluity.
The music is more
It is more
The only thing that is more.
It is the only thing that is more.
Because--because music made from
and unstrung strings
and woodwinds all left in the rain--
Music made from instruments which cannot play in tune any more than they can play themselves--
Music made with raw throats and with bleeding, callused, ragged hands--
Music made in agony--
Music made in forsaking all else--
Is such a kind of music more than music itself.
And it is more beautiful than the best of perfect intonations.
Because God did not become perfection--
He became human.
He became sin who knew no sin.
And that being is far more existent than existence itself.
All things real bow down to a paradox.
For God himself is not real.
We are real.
But we strive not to be.
That we may, in ourselves, be that which we cannot be.
That which we cannot understand.
That which is not created, cannot be perceived or explained, but purely...is.
Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, for perception cannot but attempt that grand, unfathomable experience which is to behold. For to behold implies, in its very inception, to be beheld.
The only truth is that Truth is not rational. The best thought we can have is that no thoughts make sense. All rationality ends in the truth that nothing can be both rational and True, that nothing can be both existent and real, that no mystery is fact.