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You are simply a lower vibration of me, incapable of your own forward motion. It is My Beingness that causes you to pray, though you believe it is somehow of your own accord. You would not even be animate if it weren’t for me. I am the very breath in your lungs before the urge to genuflect has even surfaced. Everything you do begins and ends with me.
Bow lower, pray harder..
"The prisoner kneels. Caged, dirty metal dictates futility. Loud noise deafens reason.
But devoted he remains.
A martyr to the relentless pursuit of nostalgia. He persists in clinging to the the aroma of perfume that whizzed by and now gently lingers. She was never even aware; or, was apathetic to the prospect.
Love or something like it. She mocks it as something sinister. He’s blinded by the romance.
Something about the way her hair fell that afternoon, the way a scented candle lingered long after burning away, or the agony of denial when apathy was no longer a choice.
Devotion is his polite reprieve, but agony will inevitably and uncompromisingly triumph. Shackled and afraid to open his eyes, he blinks but a moment too late only to see her carry on to the next cell, the next hostage… grinning with indifferent amusement.
Adorning the pedestal of someone else’s suffering.”