Ten Thousand Spoons

I love oranges. The taste, the vitamin c, the color, but best of all, the insatiable primal feeling I get when I stab my fingers through its flesh and tear my way into the meat. There is something so non-sociopathic I enjoy about tearing flesh from meat.

I’ve never thought this, but I think I’m doubting God. Or maybe not so much God, but everything else around God. I’ve always considered myself a pretty religious person, but some things don’t seem to add up these days. Crazies with family, with work, with school, and somehow I’m supposed to feel that this has been planned? I spend most of my life thinking about and trying to save others. Save my family. Save my friends. Save my enemies. And now I’m doubting the saving. Am I really managing to save anybody? Do I have that power, that capability? More so, how can I manage to save somebody when I can’t even save myself?

Realizing the inadequacies of self is one of the most humiliating things to do.

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