I am finite, but reach for the infinite

As I sat at my desk to write, driven by the sensitivities of my unanswered longings the entire collection of the English language escapes me. The sea of sensations in which I float eludes my grasp as I try to scoop it out with a fishing net the shape and size of “and”. Then, in the sound of music rather than word, the ocean swells, and the skies thunder down a flurry of emotion that beats me soaked. It is in this storm, like the scene itself, that I come alive. In that weathered clarity, I see that I’m compelled to write not out of some gifted affinity crafting prose, but from the lacking opposite. The vast world of inner perceptions and sensations that defines nearly the entirety of my experience slips away the moment I try to capture it.

Inside me, there are rugged mountains set high against royal blues skies, awakening into blood range horizons. At their feet lie valleys, peaceful and quiet, with still bodies of water sustaining the delicate flora that call this land home. But when I try to hold this image still, like a dream I refuse to relase, it vanishes.

So much of my attention and concern is consumed by the invisible and the abstract. These realms make far more sense to me than the tangible “meat and potatoes” of ordinary life. I sense a hidden world, awfully rich with treasures, yet it exists just beyond my most desperate attempts to communicate. The gap between what I feel and what I can express is so minuscule yet so infinite that it’s almost unbearable.

But, in this concern lies my path. What could be better than striving to illuminate the hidden dimension of the world that exists within each of us? To bring to light the remotest corners of inner life, where we can all journey and find enrichment, like tropical islands imbued with a mystical presence. I am finite, but I reach for the infinite.