The mathematics of language, he says to me, so casually, like tossing the day's mail from the postbox on the table with the car keys, without much thought. Unbeknownst to him, my heart wants to do something that tears through our haze of lived reality, out of ecstasy, cry out to God in the possibility of the thought that that knowledge could also be mine someday, that I could watch an artist work out what he wanted his art to be, and if there was no God, I'd invent him all over again, just to cry out in irrecoverable glee.
Sometimes you need to hurl things into the horizon, out of the stratosphere, into the darkness of space, outside our bird's eye view of life, precisely in the hope that there is someone to catch it. This is why we invent God.
No comments:
Post a Comment