Wrapped around my bones, chaining my soul to my body, is the dangerous and unreasonable conviction that there is nothing I cannot be and nothing I cannot do. It is embedded, permanent, and alive. This I believe.
I believe this dense conviction actually floats. It carries me separate from all the things I am being or doing un-me, un-what-I-want but done nevertheless. Never totally gone, I remain doing and being. Please understand how good and bad, night and day this all is.
Day and night she stands before me in short skirts. Peaking from her blouse, resting on her breast, a small flower tattoo. I can smell its perfume and my head—no something in my head, chest, back, legs—begins to—no simply, instantly—responds, and I leer in worship that frees and traps. Though somehow natural, it is grotesque, chauvinistic. Is this my nature? It is a breath, sustaining. It is a suffocating dust.
Yet freely I worship God, and freely I worship gods. I am afraid there is nothing I cannot and will not worship, and this is paralyzing. For there is no just freedom from this: I am free to choose. He and I are soul and dust connected until death. Unified duality: self, and this self is murder and sacrifice, lust and love.
He stares at the business, political, social, academic, recreational, faith-based crowd gathered. He offers his participation. They all seem to care so very much about so very strange, un-him things. Why doesn’t he care? Why are they un-him? He is man too. He is here too. He leers in disgust.
I don’t think so. I believe dreams come true, and food can be earned with passion. Without regret, he and I can find self-expression. By grace, I can choose right, and the self that is dust and the self that is soul can settle and soar in peace.
I believe it is wrapped around my bones. I believe it connects my body and soul. I believe it is infinite, and I believe it lives. It is the Creator-endowed fabric of human existence. I can be anything and I can do anything.
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