Who spoke those burdensome words: obligation, duty, responsibility?

Who would mire us in niceness and surface happiness while Love—raw and bleeding and born in the dark shit-hole of human suffering—holds out his torn hands welcoming all who are weary?

For the Law is Love. And in his name all oppression shall cease. Self-imposed oppression no less so, I imagine.

I’m tired of trying so hard to maintain my comfortable equilibrium, so weary of censoring myself and controlling my passion, as if that had ever been the point. Love in life? Yes.

But, is this life?

Because all we ever do is wait. And I am so bored in line, scared of what I will meet at the end, and equally scared of what will happen if I leave.

We wait in fear like vultures, circling ever tighter, caught by our hunger for dead and rotting flesh.

But chains shall he break for the slave is our brother. Which means, of course, that our brother is a slave.

As are we all, chained by notions of propriety and acceptability, at war within, without, and all around. But the Gospel is Peace.

And, yonder, breaks a new and glorious morn.

May it be so.

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