Random notes from an old journal:
I want to tell the whole world how I feel, but instead I just sit, staring in this empty mirror, and no one will ever know what I see in my own eyes. Like little children, they fiddle at my heart-strings, while the master violinist sits by and refuses to play.
People force-feed geese to make their livers bloat to five times the normal size. Then they kill them to harvest the livers, which they sell as a delicacy. Livers filter out poison. I wonder what the spiritual liver of a force-fed christian looks like. This is the reason chaplains apologize for being cliché and repeatedly, and pathetically, beg us to listen, to pay attention. I would rather go to someone's home and meet with some others and discuss theology and philosophy over cookies and some coffee. Why not make it real? I'm sorry. Is that too much for you to stomach?
So much momentary satisfaction at being trapped in a bigger and better box than the one before. Materialism is meaningless.
There's a sadness to the softness of a slowly slipping friend
When you've lost that mystic something
And what somehow was is somehow at an end
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