It is 100 miles an hour down the highway. Adrenaline rushes as the windows scroll open and chilly air blows inside from the snowy mountain peaks.
This green on the hills instantly refreshes the mind. The rocks that accompany it show how fragile it is. They complement each other in splendor.
It is countless hours spent driving through this maze of dense forestry, alongside the streams, flowers, and pebbles. We know that this is art. How sporadic and eventful? It comes from nowhere and goes everywhere, creating colors that give life to the world and to the animals.
Words, words, words, pages flipped. Sentences shared and expressed. These collected for my pursuit. All the while wondering, how does one think that this has a start? This aggressive green? Of all the things, why should I think that something so wild has a creator?
God knows that he didn’t create this. He’s bluffing to himself and we keep him entertained by our blindness.
We stare and think. We stare at the rocks and say “How great!” God is the writer and the author. And he attempts to write and author such rocks. The rocks show his glory. So does the green. The rocks don’t care about him. Neither does the green. What if we are an extension of that green? The rocks can’t reply to this question. Neither can we.
“The rocks don’t have a master,” He says without moving his lips. “They don’t worship me.”
“But we do,” we reply, staring at stones and pebbles, thinking we’re speaking to God. We are comforted by this blindness. We are indeed.
The Aggressive Green.