Like a moth to a flame I return raw, naked, repeatedly. Naked, with eyes rolling in my head I try to purge the deep, occult whisperings of ancient ghosts rattling through my head, calling me into some clandestine tryst. What is it? This absolution that Christianity promised us? Where is it? This loosening sense of dread? Each footfall drains me and sinks deeper into the earth like some ghastly moist quicksand, each step squirming more desperately and my head more vertiginous and dizzying with each groaning capitulation. Bring it back to the breath the new agers tell me? I can’t stop breathing that’s the fucking point! Feel the sensations in your belly and abdomen. Feel them? They writhe and flex in there, like a thousand manic bees swarming around, whisking some horrid nectar in the pit of me which I feel bubbling up, stinging my chest, my heart pulsing like a oarsman’s fist. I don’t want to feel, don’t you see? I can’t bear the waves, the swelling, heaving, tempestuous avalanches of feeling, or dread, of sadness, of grief, of regret, of despair, of insanity, of impurity, of irrationality, I cannot bear it, can’t you see? You tell me I’m blind. You tell me I’m sick. You tell me I lack insight, compassion for myself and for others. Well I can tell you you are absolutely wrong vile monster! I have nothing but regard, patience, endearment and tenderness for my fellow mortal. It is my own sepulchral heart, my own violent dreams and capriciousness that chases me, that hounds, torments and haunts me and all you can offer is your banal and vacuous resolutions! Give me poetry, give me wine, give me magic and give me laughter, I do not want your wafer, I do not want your damned scripture, I do not seek your pardon or your redemption you ghastly wretched claimant on omniscience! Your sheep drink your blood and guzzle your flesh, and you lay claim on each mystical realm. We shall peel away the veil, we pick at the fringes of lunacy and drink real wines you vicious, horrible coward! I will gorge on peaches, on mango fruit, I will let each piquant drop rain down on my breasts while mellifluous birdsong plays dulcet fondling with my spirit. And you, you tell me I’m a glutton for reveling in the sensuous pleasures! You tell me I have a disease for wanting to return to this euphoric feeling of oneness with nature and consummation and communion with my inner most desires! You tell me to suppress them, to deny them, no, worse, you tell me my psyche is erroneous for wanting to repeat them. You truly are a miserable coward!

Well, that was lovely. Would you like a biscuit?

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