SARA

Recently met an intriguing character who careened into my life offering dreams and sought ambitions within minutes of our relationship’s birth in the exact manner I knew I would find my foundation poured. Where many imagine their dreams as byproducts of great effort and worth, I practice a faith of accepting life’s gifts, regardless of how shite their first appearance, as even stepping in dogshite can be a blessing in the right context. My faith has no time for any distinctions or differentiations between people as vessels of varying values, but merely people as divine mock-ups, rough drafts of our rising godhood with different creatures as different aspects of The One. My partner said they felt this person could easily go either way: demon or angel. I found this dichotomy interesting, firstly because under common understandings (common here meaning Christian. I am, after all, Scottish/Texan) demons are nothing but angels themselves, albeit fallen. 

Fallen, now there is a concept to sink some real teeth into, some fat flesh to give us dumbfuck theologians and philosophers and muckers in the divine an illusion of purpose, for we hopeless fools who still seek it. No, purpose is not sought, it is accepted, and any still stuck in that journey of searching only deny the infinite bounty of existence in favor of false sugary treats for the insatiable cunt-addled ego.

How can we — I stop myself. 

How can we? By making it so. By doing, by creating, by destroying, by inflating, by diminishing, by extinguishing, by inundating, by depriving. We can anything, because we are anything, and in those moments we doubt this truth, we choose to drink bottom shelf substance instead of the promised nectar of Olympus. And why would I want less than that god damn bounty of my diminished ancestors? Why would I choose the ever-present mediocrity of the merely modern when I can ask in the constant kingdom of the past? Yes, calling it the kingdom still carries on though we are now late in the days of democracy, and we wonder why the children flee the church.

Who does my responsibility: myself? Those I love? The people? Pray, where are these things different? To whom are they the same? To what do we owe anything? 

Would a flippant derogatory opinion with immense powers of destruction deserve utterance in the name of candor/truth/self?

How regular must sacrifice call us until it gets called self-abusing? I cannot see the cost as less than infinite when contending with circumstance, that cunt. 

I command my god to give me a calling, cravings, commandments, goals. I command my passions to come to me externally so I face no judgment on my own selection, but rather defend nations of birthright instead. How easy is nationalism, how shallow, Hen, and pitiful. How much grander the ambition of change, of transformation, metamorphosis, transcendence. 

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A note, now 3 months after writing: trust in first appearances, trust the smell of dogshite to avoid