Solidifying My mind

Can you smell the music of angels?
It breathes like the fish that fly through your dreams.
Make sense of my madness, young man.
I pay you.
I dare you.

We are one, but we are two, and there is a silent third who watches and (smiles? weeps?) forever.

Listen to my words.
They will make sense of your vision, and the churning in your stomach, and the pain in your shoulders.

I will take your heart apart.
This isn’t science; there is no blood test.
Lay your pieces on the table, and I will feel them out.

You hair smells like incense. What is the liturgy of love? How do we codify reality? What happens when we break your understanding? Can we betray our senses, or perhaps we become more aware?

The Wymen dance in the reflection of the non-canonical icons.
Purple socks peek through biking pants.

Let’s talk about the resurrection.
Let’s play with your identity for a moment.

I stopped running for a rest and this is the result.
My pieces fell around me and I shake them like the dust.
The metallic taste of fear overwhelms the caffeine in my system.
I do not know who I am, but… did I ever?

 I have a confession. Father, hear my confession. Master, pardon my iniquities. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of self, I will fear no therapy. For God so loved the world that he died and died and died. And he lives and lives and lives. And we live in a world of our own creation, staring at our own faces, because if we lived in His we would surely die. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us.

The Jester and the Prophet and the Stranger face the lonely Orphan who emerges from a memory only to be shamed once more by the Widowed Priest.
Dan Allender’s Archetypes can go to Neverwhere for all I care.
They’re too true to be real, and they’re drinking all my coffee.

He asked to for me to stop translating.
Language is translation, and this is the closest thing to purity I can muster.
I don’t know if this rambling scares you, but it sure as hell scares the shit out of me.

Forgive me, my pixie. I am so imperfect, and I love you more than I can perform. I have always only ever been an actor, but I want to hold you backstage. Away from the bright lights and soliloquies, the jokes and the pathos. I want to meet you in my street clothes, but I feel so much more comfortable in the costume of the lover.

As this rant continues, it starts to make more sense.
Perhaps I just needed to write it out, feel it in my fingertips for I have been struck dumb.
No external references, no more witty turns of phrase.
Only speak, only write, only say the last bit of solid ground you have.

Lord, Jesus Christ, risen Son of God, have mercy on me, a confused and broken and willing sinner.