Children of a Mad God

Observing the events that are unfolding in the world at large,

And the raw material of greed and confusion that drive them mirrored in my own psyche,

I can’t help but think that we are but the toys of a force that is halfway between an alcoholic father and a bored child.

In fact, I’ve been finding solace in the idea that there is something to be found in the most fucked up facets of life.

Well-being is always at risk of being dethroned by ecstasy,

A much more potent force that associates with no moral notion of good and bad.

Confusion is the path, as if life were a question worth answering with any action on the spectrum of suffering to bliss,

Shots in the dark to find an appropriately intense manifestation of emotion,

Of appreciation for the mess we’re in.

The mere willingness to navigate the innards of life can yield some sense of grace.

A gift from the gods of chaos.

A wild ease, an illogical calm in the face of suffering of self and others,

An amoral laughter that accounts for all the cries in the world.

The symbols of the divine initially show up at the trash stratum.

Arising from the core of our pain and greed, the essential energy of desire is not separate from the sacred.

Our basic appetite for transcendence gets funneled into the crass fantasies that dominate our lives.

The original meaning of the word sin: missing the mark. Lust, gluttony, these innocent misuses of life-giving powers.

Our addictions stem from a raw material, a spiritual thirst yet unformed, an unchanneled love.

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