THE MYSTICISM OF REALITY
the color of our surroundings in self defense. And often aggressively we color our own passions, oblivious of the native pigment hidden in our own consciousness. We want to be what we are not, and we are petulent, moody, when we fail.
Albeit, moods, howsoever evanescent, have a spiritual significance—a physical import as well. They are the living cells, as it were, of the psychology of our being. Even the most elusive, the most sudden and unaccountable, has in it the potency of perpetuity. It vanishes into our subconsciousness like a waft of perfume or a whiff of smoke, and there, in the alembic of mystery, is invisibly, insensibly transformed or crystalized. It evades in either instances our mortal ken. Its process of growth can not be detected, however keen our perceptive faculty. And a microscope of moods has not yet been invented. Let us then respect the aura of mystery—the etherial,—spiritual and moral,—emanations of every reality. And the trick of candor and sincerity as well. Our psychological analysis