Process the feelings connected to your ego and exercise the muscles that can let them go. It’ll be your death if you keep walking down this road that leads to self-loathing. What is it about your discontent that keeps to tethered to your past?
— stop —
The lightning strike that killed my uncle was a bottle of gin and a carton of cigarettes. It may well have been the metal slide at the park with the sun beating down on it. Either way it burned the skin so bad that it demanded the helicopter ride that ended in watered down coffee and hospital food.
— stop —
You are a lost soul. You are a purposeless child. You’ll find your way to the back of the church and it’ll be your feet that end up getting washed. Break the bread. Take the money from the basket. Slip into to the confessional just off to the side and hope for the best. Bless us, oh lord. Bless us until our hands bleed and the leather seats in our new truck warm our backs in the cold morning air. This is where we meet our maker. This is where we find our purpose. This is where we come home.