One thousand blessings and One thousand Curses

Perturbed.

Well, I'm either riddled with anxiety or I'm coercing myself into a drone state of apathy to alleviate the discomfort of feeling like a deadweight. I wonder if there is a difference between being sober and wild with apprehension and expectation, every turning corner a sensation. Still the same in the end. One thousand blessings and one thousand curses. I curtail the list of grievances and exalt with incense and mihr the good and sweet sounds. I apply the echoes of wonder to my daily doctrines and to my planned outlines of the destiny of all. Isn't that the requisite for love based hope, a fucking happy ending?

Still we are burning in our passions and our lusts and we are on fire with tension in our gritty bits as we try to give a fuck about each other. Dear God, I don't want to place aside that struggle for honest meaning for a little time groping your shame centered features.

We exchange stories collected from our hysteria. We are not still as we sigh and wish and wish and wish we could collect those elicit feelings captured in our perfect polaroids. I'd like to place my hand on yours to calm your quivering spirit. I'd like to place my hands on your shoulders and bring back a relaxed state to your heart. I'd like to introduce you to my freaky and fiery friends, whom all have nuances I find extremely charming. I'd like to see my mother console you through your difficult mind, past all the obstacles constructed, by you or my adversary.

I'd like to see a hundred friends gathered round a birthday cake, as every one of them sing to you to the best of their ability a song you probably hate. I'd like to see tears in your eyes, as you realize everyone of these people love you and would give anything for you. If I told you this, you would have a million objections, I know. But I wonder if the thousand blessings I'll pray for you tonight would outweigh the nine hundred ninety nine curses you place upon yourself.

My rotten soul would curse you one time out of spite. Out of its satanic nature. And I'll wonder if I'm the spitting image of my father. Adolescence counted by the clock of sexuality. You might ask if this is really true, if my issues are really this carnal. I'd admit that I'm a blasphemer like the rest.

I just hope, that with the one thousand blessings we got, that maybe my Brother-King can work out something.

For your soul and mine.

Lets, make a promise you and I. Lets value honesty and humility for the rest of our days. I'm convinced I'm wrong on so many accounts, and I keep losing track of those who keep me accountable. Summers surrendering back to the confines of my second guessing spirit can't keep me a child forever. I have to make these blessings work and I need to place confidence on something other than myself.

I have to try to figure the outlaying and arithmetic of my words and boundaries before I go doctoring blessings under laden with self-righteous curses. Every relational entity is fragmented by broken hearts, and I am weary from this asunder fabric we call a church. But it's a melody I can't criticize, as it carries the crucifix for my benefit.

Ten thousand upon ten thousand blessings poured out unto me. Call up the resistance and tell them their tears are for naught, I have a home in heaven. Come along. Cast down your burdens and spit your worst curse my way. Could we stumble into heaven? I'm sure my Brother-King could work something out.