There’s this thing I’ve observed.
Where we keep ripping the scabs off our wounds so we can feel the rapture of pain.
We get addicted to the feeling. That sweet sorrow. Where we roll around in it.
And others will watch. Sometimes, they toss gifts of pity while we perform in our mud pits of struggle.
But it’s self-knowledge and love we’re after, not pain. An intimate friendship with Elohim.
But we’re not strong enough for that.
Base admission to a relationship to the Divine is personal accountability.
So we’ll stay in struggle instead; In pity for life’s challenges.
Making things up. Sabotaging. Trying to kick up dust underwater just so we can feel the turbulence.
Because the cost to be strong is too great.
So here we are, crying like children at the mouth of a fertile river.
Champion Masochists when we could be Master Mystics.