Another Level Of Knowing

The Poetics Of A Truth

0324.2025

There is no such thing as spirituality.

Only scaffolding made of breath and panic,

held together by trembling hands.

We dream up gods in the fog,

hammer our fear into folklore,

make shrines from rot.

It’s theater.

Not beauty.

Not truth.

The most exquisite, unbearable freedom

is knowing there’s nothing behind the curtain.

And if something is there—

we’ll meet it when our mouths go slack

and the light in our heads gutters out.

The fairytales harm more than help—

Chewing at the edge of reason,

keep us looking up instead of at us.

We are compost and calcium.

We are the tantrum of a star

pressed into meat.

We are brief.

We are breakable.

And because of that,

we should be kind,

but kindness is too quiet a religion for most.

Nobody wants to sit in the dark

long enough to see what’s real.

They want halos and handbooks.

They want their own dread

wrapped in gold.

So they keep making believe—

stories with teeth and wings,

the heavens with rules,

hells to burn us all in—

because creating solutions

requires admitting the house is on fire

and always has been—

that we’re all arsonists

and the only way out

is to put the match down

and rebuild.

But that takes nerve.

That takes stillness.

That takes looking directly into the unknown

and realizing it doesn’t belong to anyone.

(It never did.)

And what a sick, glorious thought:

that maybe the only sacred thing

is how ruin

keeps handing us

a hammer.

m.c.f.