There were three kings that came to visit Mary in her darkest/brightest hour. They gave up all their riches for what she brought to the world. No one remembered Mary's smile, or laugh, or her table-side opinions. They glorified her work and neglected her person. She was chosen initially for her dedication. She died without her work at her bedside. Her son was not their to relieve the pain. But she died with his love. And I guess that was enough for her.
But I wonder if it was worth the blisters on her feet. Worth the crusted dirt on her skin. Never feeling clean. The nomadity. The constant selflessness, working for such a large perspective of greater purpose.
I know I'm going to die a blasphemer. I'll question life until death has sown its seeds into my ribcage and the roots grow out, contorting my frame. There are some days that I long for consistancy. Days where I feel like I'm leading an army on my own morality, a Miltiades-like leader, a polemarch turning on its own men to gain safety. I know when I die, I'll confront St Peter, and Aristedes, and undergo the challenges that Ra endures during the nightly underworld visits and fail at every one. My heart will sink against the feather of truth. My karma will burst from the dam it's collected in for years.
I'll be happy, you know. Because I'll have realised. Found out, for certain, that I am really no one. No one at all.
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