August 3 - Lest Ye Be Hobo

So what. So I am intended for something. Being readied, as a bride, for the enaction of this often stretching causal alignment.

My prayer, then, is to open to it. To let the opportunity of my being yield unreservantly to its culmination. Like that guy in the Fountain, floating in his bubble to the Big Light. To be swallowed and reissued, moment by moment: this is me.

So what. So I am wanting for something. Being entrusted with thirst, that I may feign enduring it, and graduate to pursuing its remedy.

My prayer, then, is to hold not to the inevitable; to cease grasping at all I am righted by birth, and let these gifts, instead, be immersed in me.

So what. So I see you wanting for something. I see you grounding the desire for incontravertible acceptance, for security without end, for the loving arms of everyone around you.

My prayer, then, is to add my arms. And impart with them their irreversible seal. Unless you are smelly, or a hobo.