“…Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8).
I want to sit at the edge of a waxing crescent moon and collect thoughts and visions of beauty; words of wisdoms… to only think of whatever is pure and whatever is lovely. But the mind must be trained on this. It is a continual struggle. And then, the atmosphere has turned blue—the blues of a pitiless January, which persist on piercing my soul with a thousand knives; daggers of ices and stalactites that freeze and obstruct the miracle of light. And there’s a whole world out there of ground-and-ceiling growths made of ice that are as intriguing as they are strange—merciless demons in ice garments; wrapping roses in attire of ices; frozen dew on the ground and the formation of ice in standing bodies of water. And inside… inside dwells an allegory; an absurdity. Ices treating with contempt all that emanates from God. The atmosphere where dwells the soul is quite complex; it reflects micrometeorological conditions; ribbons and needles of ice in some intricate patterns—much like the outside.
I don’t wish to reason with faith, but I often find myself struggling with doubt.