Inside the brain are ten compartments. One for each element of our humanity, further divided into 108 sins of the human condition.
One tenth is all that’s active out once. 10.8 sins play through our mind. At least that is a healthy adult. A child is removed.
But what for the incapacitated, the lame, the meek. Disability is a symptom of the excluded. Though they exhibit a deeper struggle and contemplate the same sins, they are active upon a separate skill set of reasoning. For what of those who cannot take part in the daily sins of our lives.
So much of what we feel is dictated by what we see, our inner vision is tormented by the horrors we endure, what we fight through and are told is normal. A great many thanks must be given for those who teach us that our dreams, our wishes, our desperation are not to be willed for. Our suffering attributes to those. We can never be happy until we accept the disgust of our lives.
Sit in solace. Rest in peace and pray to god, to the god of all of us, un-moved by name, that there is more to life than what has been perceived by the broken children of the world that gives us the nights stay. However long until it perceives us threat and ejects us into the primordial chasm of all life.
Pray to god. Pray. Pray again and again. Pray that heaven is not this. That struggle is absent. That true struggle, the struggle of struggle is not the same there as it is here. That it is something we cannot perceive but that we can enjoy.
A tree lies in her garden. A giant oak no taller than a mansion. A figure of great expectation and yet no words come from the beast.
Peak through the eyes of the blind. The tree has no top yet it provides shade and cast asunder it protects from wayward weather. It’s own climate there is no rain, simply gentle drips. A drift wood that stands tall, gathering moss and visitors. Simple creatures and simplified humanity. It absorbs emotion and therefore has none of its own. It is no friend but does not know the name of enemies.
She sits from time to time. Takes off her eyes from time to time to see the world without the world.
She looks to The sky, moody purple, dark shines of red and blue melting into textured whisps of floating condensation. Unbeknownst to her, the sun creeps between blessing the earthy grass with heat shining into the very core. The tiniest formations of matter siv through the cracks into the very essence of being.
A vision of all this, a being could never grow tired of life, so much movement she could never grow tired of what she is unaware of. The very thing that motivates the virus. The heroes, the villains and the ever webbing tangle of their lives.