Miracles exist for a moment. They are little windows of time that counter reality. They are true only for a short period of time, until one enters back into the banality of life. A miracle seems to me an extreme opposite to the current circumstance. Only a fool could believe miracles to last a lifetime. Perhaps life is a linear depiction of tiny miracles - which encompass joy and love and certainty - juxtaposed to disaster; to ruin, to fear and uncertainty.
How long do we bask in goodness before we give into the sense of change, the sense of departing from the love that existed mere moments ago? How do we deal with the in-between states, from miracle to disaster?
We will naturally always be beckoned toward the light of miracles (or should we call it love?) like moth to flame. We will forget all of the strife we've endured, we will forget that it comes again after the initial warmth of the glowing yellow light. We will get burnt, and start all over again, repeating in this endless cycle until we are enveloped in the ultimate merging of miracle and disaster: death.
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