March 9, 2025 A.D.
Last night I spent a few hours here on my own, pondering many things—including some the Old Church calls the
last things. I looked at how night slowly covered the Earth and gently suffocated the Sun out of our domed enclosure. I looked up into that hidden reality now coming in to view and thought all kind of thoughts. But there was one that compelled them subtly (and not so subtly): Behind them was longing—an unmentionable longing. A longing whose object is unnameable as far as I can see because it dissipates as soon as I attempt to definite it to a specific point, i.e. a person, a country, a job, an experience, an idea etc. Even my concept of
God eventually fades into nothingness and leaves behind just simple longing. It leaves not certainty nor anything to lean your head upon, just silence. Silence that emanates from beauty; beauty the longs for beholding; beauty that longs itself. Maybe this is enough a certainty. Maybe it is enough in clouded times.
C.
