“Forgive the guilty,” is not a slam dunk as it includes ourselves and the demons we know, or knew, and even imagined. Two days ago, mulling over current events while beading at the table on the veranda (a mindless craft I take up when my heart is overwhelmed), I was repeatedly muttering, “Ya know Bon, you are going to hell even though you live in paradise.” When the nosey committee within meets to discuss/project my life I listen, with detachment, but not much import.
I dunno, but at this date and time, beating myself up is part of the quest for humility?
Clearly, I would prefer not to live in an afterlife of screaming skull and bones and burning fires but the longer I live this human hell is exactly what we fester on Earth. I witness the horrific ghastly shit we do to each other and this marvelous planet and count my blessings, and yours too, for freely floating above the delusions.
I am an observer. My days of directly jumping into the fray are more than likely finished. Today, and tomorrow, I would prefer relentless living within a kindly, considerate, loving, and satisfying world but maybe the best one can do is be blessed with a significant other who seeks a nearly identical way of life. Oh, and the s.o. carries a level of compassion so heavy, it is invisible, to even himself.
Gratitude arrives set into various stained glass works and occasionally in the form of a woven cloth found forgotten yet forgiven.