Sunday, May 17, 2026

In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. All things that have been made were made through the Word by God and all things that are were made by the Word through God. The Word of God continues to create today, even recreating that which has been made by fashioning anew those which surrender unto the power of the only almighty and living God. This Word became flesh and dwelt amongst us, as the one and only begotten of God, all for those which might give into the power of the divine. And I am not one of those.

Indeed, I balk at the Word of God made flesh, vying in my flesh for the divine godhead, seeking that I might steer aright the wreckage of this ship, which is my life of past misdeeds and indiscretions. It is these deeds and faults of mine which haunt me like the dogged night on the heels of the twilight with the sun sinking down below the horizon line into the vast ocean of my subconsciousness, which lies mired in the despair of insipid and insidious addiction galore, the depth of which I have yet to fathom. All I know is that I am a fool on a fool’s errand, seeking to attain unto the divine godhead without the least bit of understanding within myself as to the means by which such an errand might be truly accomplished. I am but a poor and indolent fool of no consequence and wonder how the almighty, aloft upon his awesome perch might look down upon one as mean and miserable as myself.

I see myself–but do I see myself? Am I seeing that which it is that I am? Am I divine–or am I diabolical? For both seem to be within my very state of being, exacting of me the very flesh I pound out each day upon the anvil of blood, sweat, and tears–none of which I possess to produce, as I am a bloodless, lazy, tearless wretch. All the productions of my hands which I have wrought in my work appear to me as mere fantasies and apparitions of nothing and nothingness, which lay about me in empty folly and duplicitous vanity. I see but a faint shadow of yesterday and tomorrow in today, while today wastes away in the ever present moment of nowness, leaving me without anything to grasp onto, save the empty futility of my frustrated attempts at becoming whatsoever it is that I am to become indeed–yea, in deed!

For no spirituality is legitimate without the hammering out of it upon the anvil of action–wherein, whereat, whereupon the truth of reality is manifest in the truth of deeds done not of duty but in devotion, which is manifest of a heart of passion in love for that which is true and truth. For the only weapon at hand, available is truth. The truth is the Word, which speaks of God alone and God at hand. This truth I long desperately to know, but know in myself so much truth as to be an abysmal mess, which cannot entertain entering upon the path of truth, lest I should taint that good and holy thing it is.

And yet–I find that I, though I am a spot of mud in the mire of my consciousness, but a bit of shit to be spat upon–my God, too, is of the Earth. For God is not so wholeheartedly holy as to be apart from the dust of the Earth, which I lick up with Eden’s serpent. The God I see, which I know, whom I know is the God of the Garden, working the Earth with strenuous labors, digging through the mud–till I should be found and remade into the very image of God.

As deep calls unto deep, so my soul hearkens unto the divine–not the will of mine, but only that of Thine.