Reverance

It felt like a six-story spirit rested upon my shoulders. He loomed over me, There was no where to go, my feet were unmovable. I was completely sober, and slightly scared. But more so, hopeful.

Now, I am struggling with my mirror. I wrestle with two thoughts. They're thoughts about reflections, the way the light shines on my eyes. No. Not just the light, but what resides deeper within. The first thought was; can you see the spirit inside, or is he just hidden by my pride? Pride overflows my mind with lies, screamin "LOOK AT ME, RAISE THIS SONG OF BLASPHEMY. EXPERIENCE A FULLER REALITY, NARCISSISM IS THE PINNACLE OF CREATION"

The second thought is; as I search myself, trying to find those sacred temples, will I miss your light, miss what makes my temples holy to begin with? Will I get so stirred in my spirit, that I can't stop spinning, caught up in a parallel reality to keep my mind busy in? Or will I retreat, back to my apathy, a comfortable home, or rather a comfortable grave.

But, that's not a really an option is it? Tell blackbird I found a proof of angels equal to the ones we found of demons. In fact tell that to the silent child with the burning eyes, that and that God really is like water. God really is like an ocean of life. Too full to fill anything less than eternity. That he will, if asked, comply with your prayer for a different heart. A heart full of the love you say burned out with chemical stains on your brain. A heart you say can't believe that miracles could happen for you, that too much hope can't be true. He will wash over you like a violent wave, and that leprosy will leave your body, truth will remain.
And you
You will be free
Just as I am now. I think with absolute certainty, that Christ did really die for me, and that he intends to complete his work. I was working so hard to build myself a ship, to sail across a dead sea, to find something in this ocean of nothing. Righteousness was the cloak I was terrified to wrap around myself. Thought I couldn't produce the strength to carry such a heavy material. Thought I might drown in this ocean of nothing. Thought psalv-muron was going to cast a final curse to devastate any grip I could place. Still, by divine grace, the finality of tragedy took its exit, not tragedy though, just the unanswered questions those philosophers so eloquently composed.

I can burn that house I called my planet now. I called it Ringo, but really it was just a dirty temple to selected favorite idols I liked to subscribe to. I can watch the fire consume it, in complete holy wrath, in complete holy jealously, for all those years I was succumbed to idols of addiction, self-denial and self-blasphemy (the years  where I said that there was no love). I will smile when I see its structures finally collapse, knowing there is no way back.



You and I can walk away, with that six-story spirit, or seven or eight, depending on where we are then. Either way, we will be totally and completely in love.

I don't think that those two questions I posed will matter then. Or even exist.

Rather, reverence.