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Worshipping Lali

Rude love

Love is violent. Isn’t she? There’s nothing as rude, nothing as intrusive, nothing as wildly undetermined as the gaze of untamed love, as our many stories of interbeing. She sneaks in like an ocean wave in the dead of night, and disturbs the peace of the snoring sands. She muddles the pristine puddles of waters and frightens away the pious priests that chant by the shorelines. She blows out their conservative lanterns of purple incense and flame. The stern queen of twilight, love cannot be owned, understood or contained. She cannot be fully embraced. She cannot be worshiped. To approach her, you must give up the idea that you can be safe, that all is well, that good and evil are estranged twins instead of strange bedfellows, that you stand alone and separate from everything else, and that heaven is a reward with golden pavements or that hell is a punishment boundaried by lightening. Whether she smiles on you or no, she will fall upon you in her salty excellence, and disturb you. And you will be blessed

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.