The Sentiment
It tends to matter—each pursuing holy armor. It leans into a desire to feel pure, clean, sacred and such. I never understood why we start off unclean, such rare infants, born into someone’s luggage. One feels like filthy rags until one is purged of trespass. In doing such fresh from one’s sanctum, womb. In loudness of a holy voice, a vox in measure, such purgation, radical truths. With adoring an emotion, connected to wounds, so reverent in a given essence, so moved in a given moment. Rituals seem permanent. Redemption appears recurrent. Theology seems dependent. Many axioms in seeking clarity. Like a thief inside; gradually rising out of body, returned to impossibility. It tends to matter—self-imagery, mind reflection, an utter need to separate from badness. In walking eastbound, one is faced by meditation, a desire to attain to nirvana, a need to defeat illusion. A different approach: The god in me greets the god in you; nonetheless, searching for purification, a sense of purging. Ultimately, a war is impending in selves … striking at delusion, finding conviction, standing on a foundation. A mirror can become unfriendly, revealing what we never utter. Such prevalent theology in Christology; such relished knowledge in Sutras; such guidance in Yogic practice. Souls are hungry for meaning, needing a little mystery to usher us forward.
