John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice
nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary
journals. His first book, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
Here in the house of the most familiar love, we find our true self, silently breathing in the clear pure essence of exquisite darkness, of eternal peace. We are always here, in the moment, regardless of our various diversions, digressions, and discursive meanderings.
No desire can touch this presence or supplant its infinitely inaccessible dimensions; it is complete for all time, expansive beyond all space, surpassing any images or ideas.
This very moment is the source and destination of our being: the bell tower strikes nine, the fountain fills the courtyard and chapel with murmuring perfection, the sky sits silent and unfathomably splendid above the day. The crucified hangs in divine shadow amid brilliant stained glass, perpetual agony, redemption undeserved yet somehow an endless promise.
From our depths a hint of mystery, unresolvable and vital, streams forth with each unprompted breath, each yearning, every fledgling consonant, each utterance of human suffering.
A shuffle in the pew, a flurry in the street, a starting engine, cavalcade of locomotive nonchalance, returning now to everyday routine with just a hint of inner qualities left undetected, unplumbed, inviolate.
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