Lucifer is complicated, and you are complicit, stop pretending otherwise. Stop doing this to yourself, do something different with yourself. Thoughts in a diner, writing by hand, a part of the country I know exists but don't recognize - when did this happen? Driving below the speed limit through moonlight alone in the Smoky Mountains. This is pushing sixty. The ones who swallowed, the ones who didn't and the One Who is Here, always, teaching me.
What is the story your therapist is telling? Is it a story you could tell yourself or a story that teaches you that you are the teller? Remember poems when all that mattered was writing them down and that was all that mattered? Moonlight slipping through striating pine trees in a nearly silent forest. The river rushing its banks and falling back all the way south and east to the sea. Secrets. Seasons? Well, healing anyway. It matters - what matters - if you have to ask - .
Equal and the same are subtly different designations, they produce different worlds, study the nomenclature carefully. Praxis arises from theory, theory from belief, and belief is a response to fear. There is less time to screw around than you think. Your grandmothers knew things you didn't, they tried to teach you, you mostly forgot. It's not a crisis but we do seem to need to know, who owns failure? Waiting for Chrisoula in the car while she shops for yarn, praying a rosary. Sunday again, in the Church of the Quietly Joyful again. Church of the Foolish? Well, doing what works again. Not settling so much as consenting to a generous extension of the original contract. Four a.m., moonlight in the toilet, pissing anyway, happier than once seemed possible.
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