Jumping on Glass

The fog: the metaphysical state of being under existential pressure. The cave. The natural order of things. The undercurrent piloting hazy life.

The default state of being is a jarring disorientation. One so invasive that it convinces the soul that it sees clearly. The beckoning siren, promising the self that its comfort is proof of clarity. Cancerous illusion multiplying through sincerity.

The soul mistakes comfort for virtue, for clarity. Why would someone sedated by the celebrated life interrogate this contract? To do so is to press a scalpel against the numbed self. It is to vicariously threaten the foundation of the lives one influences. To doubt the normal and comfortable is heretical, both to the self and to society.

To dissect the foundation of modern life is to teeter on the precipice of the "good" and the infinitely unknown. A simple choice: do you return to safety or do you take a leap of haunted faith?

Can you blame someone for seeking refuge from this terror? Can you blame a fragile, trembling soul that retreats in the name of self-preservation?

The vitality of the fog is the "good", the opaque mirror of glass that reflects one's achievements, values, ego, and identity as virtue. It does not challenge, it flatters. From distortion to distortion, to gaze into this mirror is to mistake the echo of one's own delusions as merciful light.

By choosing the leap of haunted faith, this mirror shatters. The vulnerable, trembling soul descends towards the infinitely unknown blind. A leap made in bravery and sacrifice–the offering of the finite soul's only defense against infinite pressure.

This comes at horrifying cost. This choice is to willingly jump barefoot on the same shards that once nourished the soul. It is to flay one's own soul through daily volition. It is an act of spiritual isolation, only capable of whispering to others through the boundary of language. It is an act of willful devastation, to open the wounds to the infinite in the name of clarity. It is a total devastation of egotistical humanity.

This is the constitution of exile.

It is within this void that one can become something. To become what one cannot be.

Lost, but deeply found. Empty, but not hollow.

To feel the roots weep in malnourishment, yet through this starvation to feel viscerally and unmistakably alive.

Nowhere, but everywhere.

The wary finite soul capable of withstanding infinite pressure.

This exile is the constitution of grace.