It's weighty. It is, after all, woven with pure gold. I look up at the underside of this mantle, see the inner workings of the exterior patterning which have so much less structure than the outside finished thing. I feel like the inner workings. Everyone expects of me the outer face. It's hard to breathe in this dissonance. It's hard to concentrate and believe. It is stifling.
You stand beside me, quietly. Looking up. Your appearance is oscillating, shifting, changing. A purple robe, blood-soaked, with a crown of thorns. The white wool of a lamb. The golden mane of a lion. A man so plain I would forget his face if he didn't have this magnetism. Eyes of fire and hair flowing like water. A bridegroom. A baby. A friend. You don't say anything. You just look up at the mantle with me. I turn from looking at you back to the mantle and it flickers; it almost makes sense for a moment. A flash of brilliance. Clarity. Pure purpose. Is this what you see all the time? Why is it so hidden from me? The glory would overwhelm you. You would fall on your face as if dead. So I get bits and pieces. The unflattering side of the threads. The smattered texture. There aren't any clean lines here, yet it's all the same thread. You say your yoke is easy. You say it costs everything. Please help me understand enough to continue. Just enough to take a breath. Comments are closed.
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AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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