Marx opium overflows

The 3:00 pm affair on the seventh day has tolled our 24X7. Sacrificing everything at the altar of signs, symbols and memories that has become popular. It tolls the best of our time as well as the last penny from the empty state treasury that was supposed to aid our education after it trickled down to our parents. We sacrificed. Beyond belief. Beyond our needy need. Are we doing it in the name of the Word? Pilate would wash his hands here if he were still around. Nonetheless, it has become our washbasin. But the question is, is there cleansing here? Can there be? Will there ever be? It has only become an effective tool for carving social acceptance. Fake disguise hatched the congregation. The liturgy too. Lifeless, despite the uphill attempt to revive the unseen to be made seen. Clogged minds act as narrow projectors. Rusted leverage demanding reverence squeaks like old horses. Hungry for the obscure. Hungry for the vain. And for that mite. If not then, they vetoed to pick and choose mortals who would fit into their sink of coterie. What will we inherit, than the bags of shame and degeneration? With no stand in credibility and integrity, halleluiah, saying this is the time. The chosen time. And there it is, the celebration. There it is, the devotion. There it is, the defining line. The corner of embracing the surrogate sons or daughters of that supposed holiness. It reminds me of the struggle for power before the light and darkness was cycled. The vain grope. The elephant seems to be a big pillar if not a big thick leaf. Shakespeare was right, for all men and women are mere actors. The act that made Pharisee see vanities. Sweet words flow. High sugar but less spirit. The overdose sugar milked the diabetic spirits. It is not good for the soul. It did not even reach the soul for which the Word was sown. And for which the Word still is. Man’s failure would be to reap time and emotions without touching the soul. But the whole design was to become soul winners. Not emotions.

Generation of sinner’s celebrates in unquestioned delight. In the name of the Word that light the darkness. But the ceaseless celebration resembles Stephen Hawking’s black hole where even the biggest white glaring beam is gulped into total darkness. Never asking the dwell in the light or dark. High sugar turns diabetes blind. We forgot to reach for the bread. We took the snake. Maybe the venom has blinded us. Checking reality demands that we choose the bread. Otherwise, where our bloodlines flow, the toil and expectation is not to be the snake charmer. But breadwinner. In the Book it was the act of multiplying the bread and fish for the hungry bowels. Preaching follows. There is not much recorded what was preached. But the act is the biggest recorded message in that mount. We still failed to see.

Meanwhile, we are helplessly observing sub-culture growing out of it. We rejoice in the mute of the alarm bell. Justifying oneself and forgiving oneself cost lesser than the thirty silver coins. Sin is not the apple-eating act alone in the forbidden garden. Losing the light, which Home’s hearts hope to see, is no lesser than any sin. Dimming hope and expectation in the sink of the overflowing brevity is no lesser too. Maybe life is too short to realize its brevity. The last penny was while away. While weary brows and salty sweat bend and gray in the dusk. But there is no worship holier than work. The spiritual wild-goose chase is not the route to the Kingdom. Have we lost the shared glow for the glory? Have we dimmed them all? If this persists, degeneration would one day weaken the soul. The soul will also need bread. If not a victim of the thirty silver coins, it would be of the kiss of the flesh. That Judas kiss. It was never said: Blessed are the needy, they will see the Kingdom or live happily ever after. The threatening culture or subculture has the good strength to digress vision, aspiration and interest. It will then digress and substract focus, will and determination. The grace period of the Holy Spirit is not that merciful. We could leave without a trace before the Kingdom comes.

It is not a doom saying. But not that it shouldn’t be read with that flavour. Exported mortals feeding on fractured economy wasting time and youth to fancy whims. And that in the name of religion. It would not please our earthly gods who nursed us from the foetus. Let us not forget their toil. When the world outside our village booms with reason, knowledge and wisdom, we drowned beautifully in ancient belief that still requires translation to our context. Tasting the buds of superstructure culture where some sort of spirit dwells, the sight dims. Drunken reasons murdered with the supposed unquestionable sanctity. What if we represent the generation that inherits the loss? Will you be responsible for starting the fire? But the power and glory is not housed in those empty structures with decorated wooden pulpit and upgraded music softwares. They are like empty accessorized tombs. The temple is there in you. The frontier seems borderless. But it is there right within us. Within you and me. The Kingdom will come there and nowhere else.