how do I find resurrection?
these are the thoughts that I carry in my hollow aching chest on mid-August mornings
crushed / cursed by the weight of blue sky perfect blue sky seventy degrees blue in every direction as vast and aching as the hollow inside my chest.
weep for my heart, unmoored and aching / reaching for something I can only long for but cannot name. this is a clue. the mystery has no name. the longing is holy but goddamn it hurts.
cursed / blessed be all that which calls me but which does not answer me when I call: the trees / sky / emptiness / vastness and also the absence of these things, the life effusive pouring forth and the dying that is everywhere, blessed / cursed be the everything that is god killed again and again by our own hands and i have lost faith in resurrection.
the cycle of life grinds on but we have so completely fucked this world that entire life-forms are disappearing and how am I, a child of earth, supposed to live with the knowledge that we have destroyed the only god we had left?
how can i bear the weight of the dying blue sky?
these are the thoughts that I carry in my hollow aching chest on mid-August mornings. the earth is dying. I cannot find my way to the soil. I’m dying too. not actually, but dying inside. how do I find resurrection?
who do you say that I am?
I am a prophet without a god, a voice crying in the void, prepare ye the way of non-being. cast off your long-dead faith for you are standing on holy ground and the god-shaped hole is all we have, the absence where eternity should be, but instead we have only this:
the clear blue sky and the bright blaze of sunlight that will inevitably envelope our home in unthinkable annihilation unless we run ourselves extinct first in our frantic attempts to forget that all paths lead to non-existence and this moment of consciousness is more than we can bear but always less than we hoped it would be.
I give myself to vesselhood again and what pours through my veins is vast expanse of aching blue. how could it ever be anything else that that? how am I, or any of us really, supposed to bear the mundane in the unfiltered presence of glory radiating from every atom / cell / membrane of this holy dying rock? how can we expect to live except one breath at a time?
thanks, in the end to the emptiness in my chest, thanks again and again for the heavy hollow, for by its grace I am able to draw breath to beat my blood oxygen-red again.
were I as solid as I wish I could be, there would be no space for the spirit / wind. were I not hollow, I could not be animated by air. were it not for the god-shaped hole, how could I exist for one moment on this glory-ridden aching earth?
thanks, then — thanks always — to the void. from the void i come, to the void I return, into the void I commit the heavy pieces of my always-throbbing spirit.
amen.
The penultimate paragraph tore something under my ribs. Thank you.
Thank you for this. You give voice to the thoughts tumbling around in my head, and you remind me that sometimes I should turn off my distractions and let myself examine those thoughts.