Thank you God that I am not better than anyone else.
Thank you God that I am ordinary.
The void within is sensitive and rarely self-aware. Disappointment or catastrophe, it crinkles back at me. Its gnawing ache is background noise until I’m strung up like a puppet. Pain, then motion, forget the space between. My savage soul has long been draped across the gap, but it’s an endless war to bridge a void that’s living, moving, breathing.
Spirituality, I think, is strung across.
Sanguine.
Distractive forgetfulness might be the drug of the age. A barrage of information sparks a cascade of reactions from which our worlds arise. Manic and soothing, distraction propagates reason, reason to trust the world assembling, the world that understands itself unambiguously, without contradiction. Familiarity, peace and omniscience blur everything but the mirage, a diorama on the head of a pin, feigning everything.
Choleric.
Bitterness tastes more honest. The sickly sweetness and breathless gulping of sanguinity release for ease of mimicry. Mimicry of pain and mimicry of self are one and the same. We are whole, scoop by scoop, when the void within completes the void without.
Phlegmatic.
Numbness is expansion. Winding verve and nerve around and around the world entire. Taut, is there still room for impulse? Being all and touching all, a turbulent self smooths out, endlessly, mirror to mirror with the void. The sight refracts eternal.
Melancholic.
Masochism is the divine power to usurp the rules and relish plagues of lesser minds and bodies. Pain is pleasure. My choice is king and I devoted. I’ll drink my rules until I drown. The void, the pool, the spiraling paints I pour to devour me.
Faith is space surrendered. The void more dim and dark, but I defined. An endless loop of love giving and booming back.