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“I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death.”
Walt Whitman
A powerfully-built young man named Zeke, in his early twenties and wearing a Texas A&M shirt, explains to me and those assembled that he has suffered for many years from a kind of “soul-level pain”, and that he’s the victim of anti-spiritual forces which have forged in him some bond of earthly attachment too powerful to break. He’d totally wake up if it were possible, he assures us, but alas, his circumstances are uniquely challenging and the way is not open unto to him. This type of creative rationalization is both common and effective. He has constructed an ego-flattering narrative around what amounts to nothing more than his own spiritual inertia; the tendency of an ass on a couch to stay on a couch.
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