The will is spirit and belief, of which I’ve free rein, therefore, life must be imperfect inside of a perfectly flawed creation, the stone-silent flame. Paradise is my long road and one I chose in order that I could believe. If the path along the way to my seeking was littered with flesh and bone, piled of horrible things instead of Love’s recollection, I would not have succumbed to creation’s Love. I might imagine a heaven and find myself in fear of its quickening wrath… Isn’t it true that I must believe in something before allowing myself to believe in anything? I had lost my way in this; the immortal coil. I had forgotten Love and Peace because I had no belief. And without belief, I could not reckon with my own kinship, from the innate and the cognate to the primate and the incarnate. I must reconcile the suffering within me and make amends to those I've hurt and make amends of that which is not mine, outside of self and the machinations of me. In ord...
(The Weaver's Song)