I have developed a hatred for the posts of people who regurgitate the same drivel for year after year. And I am beginning to suffer from the weight of guilt for releasing such toxins in public. Rude and unpleasant.
I just watched Razor's Edge, and everyone would enjoy parts of it, to some it could be water in a dry land.
I am wondering what to do with my life in the upcoming years. Letting myself go nuts and dream. What the hell. They might involve law school or Asia, a crummy artistic subsistence in Chicago, or nights with politicians who pay fifteen dollars for a shot of whiskey or glass of wine.
Judge me, please.
The gift of life. At least the wonder of it. Horror, no doubt, but also a fantastic and pressing and silent call to live each day in a worthy manner. Action full of intention. Intentions without attachment. And above all connection.
To each other and nature, carving out, defining our own biological fantasies and responsibilities or to recognize, to see the incomparable depth of a friend. Tied together the bonds of human existence, infinite expanses of soul and mind within feeble inches of our flesh. To immolate the illusion of invincibility or even a decent grasp of the ultimate, our need to be needed, dancing in the fires of trial or plenty.
To touch God in the soft hand of a child as secrets pass. Such a simple trade, wisdom for knowledge. And you become great, Possessor of respect. And forget yourself. I never found an ounce of god damn respect anyway. I had it staring in a mirror once. It was a tall thin mirror, next to an old painted dresser, inches away from a bathroom that between eight of us we still couldn't afford.
And that's where we found it, threading us, the children of God together, though the puncture is a wound that none of us forgot. A living, breathing pulse that connected us not only to each other, but to all the children, in all the worlds, the sages and their gods, and every seeker and soul that ever was pierced by glory. But our initiations so close in time and space, we looked around and saw things not meant for us. A trick of spirit, a joke of nature. But we saw and our eyes were burned.
It is now impossible to be satisfied with things forfeit. I cannot even distinguish them in the dim. I just keep slamming into them.
They irritate me.
Or maybe it was a gift, a test from a force a little too hopeful. Maybe it was a blueprint we see now as we blink our eyes in the aftermath. In our cold, damp rooms that stink of reality. A map so as not to see the world as is, but as it can be through the sacrifice of our hearts and hands.
Tonight I might pray. I will set myself toward dwelling on the images of God passed into our hands.
Which we must not forget.
Born for all the squalor and glory of bearing witness to what we have already seen, and maybe, one day, will see again.
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