The challenge of the inexplicable. In description of sensory analysis is a thing defined? Am I increased by simply using my limited mental vocabulary in codifying things beyond my understanding? What then of love when I scant have known its presence yet apart its content, depth and sustainment? Is light something I truly comprehend or control? Or I left in moribund despair when looking upon the miraculous with the eyes that may simply wander in the Maravillos of magnificence?

Can I or will I accept the challenge that I can barely describe yet even less breakdown the animalistic nonetheless the spiritual significance of man’s thought, questing and practices. And am left bereft of brilliance in my abject misunderstanding and lack of verbiage when approaching the subatomic, gravity and the perpetuality of existence or for that matter the components of life? How then desperate the pursuits of a man reliant solely on limited understanding in mathematics, reason, science, longevity, time and rhetoric when confronted with the arrogant attempt at defining the Divine nature of all that makes his own DNA of purpose?

You think me masterful or mystic? A magician of sorts wowing you with the convenience of my capacity to present a vision consistent with your desire for wonder. An illusionist having amply manipulated the childlike willingness to be amazed, enamored or led into ambition group discussion of how we can self-help to nirvana or Valhalla. I am charlatan at best having lassoed the elemental journey into the moorings of universe and in malfeasance describing the miraculous in a potent method of hypnotizing the innocent. What I really mean is look at me and look at me and again look at me as I use the wonderful to deceive the amazing into giving me six Pense for having done nothing greater the mastery of storytelling.

For all my intellect I have done nothing. I have neither created, produced, transformed or edified. Simply determining to amaze with slight of mouth those who would be led into the false presumption that I actually know anything about anything. When in fact describing the Mona Lisa in terms that create sign, tear or deep thinking is simply mimicry of that which I reside in ambition of my own ignorance and envy.

I would prefer to simply be overjoyed in aspiration and inspired welcome that someday I may acquire the knowledge of those things of which now I delve in the dumbness of description. What grand comfort in the knowledge that someday I will be delivered beyond this dysfunctional utopian desperation and attempts to describe God to those who have no understanding of timeless, supernatural and indescribability in magnificence. To His Glory may I continually be led into moments promised of understanding that which is beyond this empty self.