There’s
this something, working against us, from the inside. What is this thing, this
inner mechanism, wreaking havoc? It works in images, to reel at inner trauma,
to frighten the overseer. It ceases in moments, angered by rebukes, fishing by
way of earbites; where it yearns for stagnation, to paralyze activity, for the
sole purpose of blockage. It lives inherently—strumming an inward guitar,
reaping from inner dialogues; but silence is twofold—to either flourish or
perish; thus the conflict, to taper each thought, to push past affliction. To
engage it—is an act of tiptoeing—the outlines, even the inner circle. One feels
the stress, incumbent upon consciousness, to wiggle through the crevices.
“Maybe a shot”—one ponders—to halt the friction; but evermore—a sure return, to
recognize the vocations. Is it holy contention, the walk of Catherine, the
years of Siena? I ask, touched with contrition, to grapple with a force; but
freedom comes, to cease the haunting, to wonder of its return; for this is
silent, the plight of holiness, to drift in for out of stations. Maybe one
suffers, to think of an agent, where we carry their woes; especially the
haunted, writhing through dimensions, barely for patient. I know of many,
treading this atmosphere, reaping where they have sewn; to hear it at stations,
driven to go further, to break free in segments. I ponder Jesus, so often in
prayer, to live a tested life; so what of us, chasing such glory, to arrive at
intervals—a bit naïve; but what is this something, its full genealogy, to speak
it out-loud; for I know not the cycles, to see familiarity, to feel for
pressure—the moment one enters in; where this is holiness, a type of warfare,
captured in glimpses. Is it mind—or better minds, carrying a religious flavor;
but why for this color, as opposed to purely secular? One may state the
following: it targets the overseer’s thoughts. This gives it identity, plus a
mind, operating within a mind. What are we left to fathom?
