Tell all the truth but tell it slant - Emily Dickinson
some souls, those as twisted in upon themselves as pretzels; folded and turned, creating knots of self loathing screaming for the love they need but never understand or are able to receive do much damage. some souls, those so tightly woven with fear that they clot, and cut off the flow of life, making the quick into the undead, who dress up each day to feed upon the energy of the living mistaking murder for bread and wine. the souls of the unloving do not belong in living bodies, turning them into stumbling corpses, swollen with fury and rot, followed by carrion as they stagger through days and landscapes revealing exactly what they are. Who can heal such creatures except Mystery, who gathers all back to Herself in Her own time? What defense do the living have while the monsters, in their costumes of suits and uniforms, strut, shout, and parade? When, O Beloved, will we raise the eyes of our hearts to see that we, together, are the medicine we need? When will our fists become clasped hands? Our homes become communities? When will we let the poison wash away and become, as we were, and are, and ever shall be, in and of the garden made in the beginning? May it be soon. May it be so.
Courage my dears. Love one another.
