I am seeing themes in my creative writing project emerge, shimmer in mid-air like an All Souls' eve tale on a campout of the Dead, and then extinguish, fading into the pitch black.
When we finally connect with the future, what if the future looks like the present, only with more isolation? What if we are able to link soul to soul, and culturally remove the barriers--the physical barriers, the barriers of physicality, the barriers of thought and dream? Will we learn that so much of the interconnection we seek eludes, and that our dreams and ideals richochet around in our head like misplaced turkey shot?
In my daydream, we conquer our twin daemons of hostility and hopelessness, and create ways to assuage every loneliness. We modify our social conventions, we discover God, we learn there is a meaning to it all. We learn of the afterlife, and the wonder and beauty of it all. But we learn something we did not expect to know. We learn that even when we have the most connection possible in the most poetic way in purest real technicolor, we are still so eternally alone. If the gulf between us is expressed in light years, as if our voyage were a journey to an alien planet, then we learn that no matter how intimate we seem, we are all light years away.
In this construct is there room for Grace? If faith is "the assurance of things hoped for", then might the "fellowship" be the key to bridging those gaps? When our every physical and social need is granted, and we are alone with God, is that God's face we see, or merely a majestic shoulder?
I daydream that I see the answer to a riddle, but the answer is a color, and I am color blind. I imagine that in my head is the Life Eternal, but I forgot the codex and I cannot read the hieroglyphics. We are animals who tell stories, but are the stories our only defense against the dark? Is it the Story itself that is the Comforter?
I fall in love with an alien, only it could not truly be love, because the alien is me (or is it?). I construct the alien in my mind, from the barest shreds of evidence. Every cryptic indicia I read becomes one more projection I can add to my vision. I cannot communicate with the alien, except in the most abstruse language of the inner life. When I looked in the mirror, I do not see my beloved. I only see eyes staring back at me. If blaspheming a Holy Spirit is the only truly mortal sin, is solipsism the sin or the saving grace? Is the self Spirit incarnate, or that which kills the spirit?
I run across a field, and imagine that it has been a field for generations in the past, and will be a field for generations to come. In fact, though, in the past it was a forest, and in the future it will be a church parking lot. The only thing with permanence was my imagination.
What if I could call to a voice that could hear and call back, but never do more than exchange words. Would our exchange be sound, or merely forest?
I planted a "living rock", a lithops plant, in the garden of my soul. It barely grew, and I barely watered it. I learned that another lithops grew on another plain in another place. Do I feel better, or just infinitely more lonely? If my Father's House has many rooms, but no doors, is it still a mansion?
I am ruminative and more than a bit silly tonight. I am so glad I signed up to write this novel.
