The crescendo and diminuendo rise and fall within me as if a part of me. The lilting melodies lift my feet and spin me around the room, while the haunting strains expand until I think that I will burst. Through this all, a picture is forming in my minds eye; I see it as if through a fog, always taunting, always just out of reach, always perfect. It creates in my chest an ache. If I could only get past this mist that is clouding my view, if I could only find myself in this breathtaking, unearthly, land. I chide myself for my discontent spirit, and then I wonder. I wonder if it is wrong to dream of this place that will never be. 'Or perhaps', the whisper comes, 'perhaps it will.' What if, this is how I am to long for my true home, what if, it is my true home. I am a pilgrim after all, and as such, is it wrong to dream of going home? Can I be called discontent for fixing my eyes on what is ahead as I have been commanded? No, I won't thrust this to the side. I will instead embrace it, and allow it to renew my world-worn soul. I will allow it to lift my heart and mind to higher and nobler things, as I look to that which is ahead. Yes, this is a beautiful dream, one to be kept guarded and sacred. Kept until the day that my Father makes it come true and I live happily ever after!
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