I reached out yesterday to a flame from long ago to see if there was yet some spark of fondness for our past romance to find that I’ve become a triviality a dusty speck in memory worth only in significance to rouse at first, before remembrance of our time together lit itself within her consciousness, a “Sorry, who are you?” And then I knew the crushing weight that simple words can have.
I stand here on Boeotia’s barren plain, I’m facing Pirkinon, the sun unshielded falls in searing sheets and radiates sharp torments from the ground. But I, like Cytheraon now at my back, am rooted to this desecrated bone strewn spot, I’m moved to be unmovable until I have defeated her, bright Hera’s spawn, and purged this bane from Cadmus Land.
I will remain, sweat rilled, salt stung, mouth dried, but facing it, grey grim, this she beast with the fouling breath, the moulting wings and child’s voice, that sits toss...
I find it curious that it is claimed the “ loaves of God” (whatever they may be) are nourishment unto a soul, let alone the sole one (marked definite and singular by “the”) that God is said (and awkwardly at that) to wish good health when Scripture says in Matthew, Mark, and John that any bread distributed because of grace divine was something focused and designed to feed not souls (that could not chew bread anyway) but multitudes of hungry men.
The Bible says God’s care is not for ghosts that for a time inhabit men, and then ascend into a ghostly realm of bliss above, yes, even if it notes (tell Job!) there are such things and such things do.
It’s persons whom he loves and cherishes..
The claim that we’re essentially unbodied things designed to be eventually untethered to the world God made our only home, is Plato through and through
when set against the Bible’s point of view in which it’s said ...
I cannot understand this thing called soul. It is, I’m told, essentially, a ghost in a machine.
But if it is, does it have hands that crank, or feet that pedal turn the wheels and cogs that constitute the mechanism that it haunts?
If souls are, as is generally assumed, something immaterial, dimensionless, comprised of nothing that a body has, do they possess capacity to grasp, to feel, to sense the steel (or fleshy parts) believers say that they manipulate?
Life, your weight, your hammer strokes upon my body and my mind, your whips and scorns of time is all too much for me to bear.
If there’s a purpose in your hammerings it is not clear. No matter how I search for it I’m left insatiate.
And so I ken along with scores and scores of other men whose pain that you’ve been witness to (if not its cause), whose wit you’ve smothered and destroyed, whose death cries you have all to often wrung from them whose blood you’ve...
My heart produces songs in me I do not want to hear or sing. Such songs are icy, most unwelcome things; they’re dire. Instead of lilting me to joy they, quite against my will, destroy my peace of mind and make so disharmonious my world. They are not my guide to love, nor can they ever be.