meritocracy: None inherited it,
and no father was cruel enough
to pass it in primogeniture. Think:
It is about earned solitude,
wishing the unwished, submitting
in caution until all surprise is lost.
A detached life is a gift, not holy
like the smooch of the Virgin on Joseph's
consolatory cheeks, not unholy
like the thought of masturbation
on an arid August morning. It defies
divinity, borders on the blasphemous,
yet is such detached not to do it
with any sacrilegious intent. The detached
life is not aware, and the whole effort
of cognizance is directed towards reserving
the numbness. However, it is no lethargy:
the detached is in constant struggle to
connect, to hang onto, to dangle from;
living it is no virtue. There's nothing
virtuous or moral about liking to detach
or discontent thereof. It is a matter
only realized when reflected, and the
reflection is the illusion of attachment.
I too, am connected now.
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