Submit. Like they were demanding a way of life rather than confirming your credit card details for your purchase.
Not my will…
Submit. Leather whips and pudgy men in latex suits
pretending to be furniture. Women strutting in impossibly high shoes, their
clothing held together with miles of unnecessary laces.
Not my will, but…
Submit. Say “uncle.” Sleeper holds, arm bars, and half
nelsons, the smell of rubber, the slap of sweaty skin on the mat.
Not my will, but thine…
Submit. Sturdy women in plain ankle length dresses and running
shoes, armfuls of babies, resolutely avoiding eye contact with the world.
Your will be done…
Submit. Preacher says he has a plan, he has the whole world in his
hand, don’t worry about your life. Easy to say when the things you really want
haven’t been withheld. Ever. Not for long.
On Earth…
Taken isn’t worse. To have and lose hurts more than the ache
of never having. But that ache… The pain of loss dulls with time. That ache
stays with you. It’ll kill you, just like the slowly boiled water kills the
frog. Either jump out and risk the fall, dying all broken and withered, or keep
struggling until your blood boils and your heart explodes.
As it is in Heaven.
I don't pretend to understand what this is about, but it, like your other posts, has such a wistful and tenderly observed air, I shall look forward to more. I particularly loved your post about routine. Wish I'd written it.
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I'm flattered you are sticking around. This post was meant to capture a feeling more than have a direct meaning. Not sure if I got there, but I'll keep trying.
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