There is no wasted love.
There is no great unknown. 
Rather, there are things our hearts have known well, 
that we have since forgotten; 
things needing to be uncovered.

There is no holy grail, there’s no perfect fairytale.
There’s love for sure, and there’s buried treasure,
but it’s mostly buried within us
and is found when our hearts are untethered.

There’s longing in a fairy story that’s far beyond the tales and glory. It’s truth deeper and truer than our own stories hold, because the things otherwise unseen are pictured in the form of battles and fantasy.

I can’t quite put my finger on the reason we feel so complete
or incomplete
or hopeful of something sweeter than these black top streets.
The stories point to something,
like the physical pain in my knees
and the thoughts weighing heavy on my chest hold equal credence.

I know I’ve seen and felt things,
heard and known things I had no business knowing.
I know I’ve felt love and been loved by a being much
grander than human, and outside of a scope we can see.
Though supernatural experiences from the outside seems like delusion, seeing them first hand, I have resolution.

In the midst of calamity, we find camaraderie,
within peace and anxiety and somewhere between joy and tragedy
there’s a constant that has followed through history. 

The earth has seen him and he’s seen the void before the earth’s beginning. His wisdom is unknowable and untamed, yet consistent all the same.
He’s a story teller through and through, a creative; no, the creative; Creativity himself.

I can not explain each stroke of his pen or why he penned me in.
I can’t explain the earthquakes or tragedy amidst the innocent.
I can’t fathom how this universe once wasn’t and now is
or all the dimensions within it, but I can tell you this: 

When he said he loved me, for a while I didn’t believe him.
In my mind I heard him say it, but I believed it was just inside my mind, that I was perpetuating a lie I’d heard all my life.

There are coincidences, but when there’s too many,
we can make inferences.
It took weeks, months, before I’d believed him.
The way I’ve lived outwardly changed and inwardly began to rearrange, but what I did in secret didn’t say I loved him.

My outward kindness was a cover for my selfishness.
My insecurity was blanketed by enough transparency
for people to see what I wanted them to see.
I was less concerned with what God saw from his perspective,
as long as his Christians thought I was “it”.

I wanted to be fully free from the dichotomy
and staying busy kept the feelings at bay,
at least until the evenings.

But there’s a difference between speaking it and living it.
My heart’s a mess without Jesus at the helm.
No counterfeit can stand up to the  genuine,
even if no one else can tell. 

If my senses are ever off track,
be it good music, a movie or a painting,
a bird singing, bees racing or a sunset that’s slowly fading,
good art points to something,
points to someone,
points to the hope beyond me and you.
It’s real, even if you don’t believe it.
If you conclude the truth,
there’s no turning back, there’s only through,
because love himself will pour himself into you.

We will never unravel all truth,
though through curious questioning,
there are dim views and little clues,
while blame is a warped and clouded mirror to look through. 

In practicality, I’d rather be safe than sorry,
to choose to trust a grander story that holds weight in history.
To give everything for a treasure that’s forever,
and if that treasure be untrue,
the life I would live would be enough of a gift
to this world we’ve been bound to. 

It is the most logical and most unnerving thing to give up total autonomy to a being we can not see, but from what I’ve seen, it’s worth the risk. 

*end scene*

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