Bruised Ribs and Precarious Employment: Hope Masters

If God is nature running its course. If all and all is God, enacting the parlance
of existing tropes and metaphors all intended to get us to listen, then my failures
are intended to get me closer to the realization that is water around the rim
of better places and more adroit fulfillment towards the ghosts of yesterday.

If God is existence between the air of the snapping of the fingers, then I am on the
path that was intended for me and I shall not be afraid. I shall not fear the unpredictable,
the unforeseeable. It is all just horses dancing on the railways of father’s tattered
clock and miserable dressings of this and that and out-bent manifested shapes like
doctors in the motions of desire.

Uncertainty is the enemy. At least, in those moments. However, it can also be an ally.
Uncertainty scolding the weeping masters or cordial handsome deserts like lost highway
embankments across an early broken dawn skyway, seeing and not believing, believing
and not rejoicing.

There can be no regrets in faith, just the tempered restraint of despair. I have come to know
faith as a blinding master that often defeats one’s own attempt to see into it too clearly.
That is the balance of the formidable songs of almighty prudence. Prudence, dancing on blind
scattered trails like soldiers awaiting a cause, to be certain, to be retrained, in the dull-dust of
happiness and unsettled reconstituted masses.