Hovering each day for hours between acceptance and rejection of the incredible agonies that assail me, borne low by doubt and fear. Despair and suspicion press against my flanks, and though I have the energy to cast my eyes skyward and scramble, clamber, and otherwise massively exert myself to reach higher ground, I wonder if it is even worth it, and merely crouch and breathe and flex my claws.
The problem is not avoiding self-destruction. It is refraining from detonation, from blowing up your whole life, walking away hands shoved deep into your last pair of pockets without looking back at the explosion and never building another again--for the sake of self-preservation. It is in staving off true imitation of Christ, of Buddha, of the homeless philosophers of the wandering age, decisions which take you away from family and love and ownership and safety. Is that for the best?
Crouching and breathing and flexing my claws. Unable to decide if I am a base coward unwilling to take the leap or if patience will bear fruit, if compromise really is the higher duty.
Hm. Is it all right to stay crucified, your flesh feeding and blood slaking the thirst of everyone that seems to need a piece of you just to get through their day? Or can you just get down off that tree and walk away in pursuit of ascension?
I don't fucking know.
--JL
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