The
opus of deceit—the thrill in agony—the bite in whales. To have died a smidgen,
turned into an elephant, whispering to a snake. At a chameleon, morphing into a
product, manipulated into dementia; keeping silent, going through it, no one
needs to know in full detail: the pleasure in the pain, the pain in the adventure,
the mercy in the elixir. A fair punishment. A hated soul. It becomes the
miracle of survival. The wrong crowd—to devastate one’s sanity—so obvious when
it appears. Maybe trying something new, not fully vile, just hurt, walking
through it—maintain the course; a secret in God, a feeling in Spirit, a Ghost
in Jesus. To have croaked at it, to feel the functionality, to dream bigger;
like living accordingly, at a problem inside, as if an apology isn’t where it
resides. The fret in the ship, to jettison Jonah, to calm a storm. The sudden
mastery, the feeling in faith, those few moments too deep to walk away.
