Be not the ministers of Job! Else read me not.
For life on Terra is suffering, death, destruction, mouldering. At every turn we face obstacle, stone, chain and lash.
Yet, this is a gift, truly, for it raises our eyes to the heaven which is below.
Deep. In the earth under earth. Below valleys. Under wells. Beneath the bottom of the sea.
There, in those regions which lie not--unlike the sky so sweet, the roses keen and kisses passionate--there, in that place of dark and loam and worm and blessed stone, there, there is my god. there is my refuge. there is my peace and joy. for there, at the very precipice of fire and water, lies salvation, truth, enlightenment, annihilation.
and so i dig, groping, in this outer darkness, stars and moon obscured, to claw beneath the hardened soil of foolishness and hope, to the softness of the earthly bosom. sweet earth.
sweet earth. take me as your lover. though small, i am passionate.
