I would ransom
self to some idea—the ingenuity of the falling tower, to lean into souls with
concern. I was received into a community, I showed zeal, it learns in the
balance. So consumed by elements, walking me to the cliff, begging me to leap. By
the posed thesis, to have yearning as an ingredient, the argument desires
premises. How to compare and contrast invisibility? Such medieval mysticism,
the pain of the roses, to understand everything about language—how it swims,
the vagueness, how an author works against himself? If to see as Eckhart—If to
love like Gertrude—or to know the two were gifted. So much to fathom life, to
ponder John of The Cross, to know we undergo purity of darkness; Much more in
Helfta. More so in deserts. A soul was appointed to the final calling. The
mystery is in the nuance. In the present author, by mere opinion, it comes by
assertion, souls are racing to get back to the first principle. Nothing unique—the
fairer moon, the glistening sun—as the earth is product of invisibility. Pose a
question. Form a position. Find texts for and against the belief; not a proposition,
nor a blur of dice, much more to let go and live in absence.
