Rangent: “The Body is a Temple”

If the body is a temple, are we the unseen gods that stalk its halls? Wandering around polished, tiled floors unable to speak or touch or feel. Insulated by our own Grace. If the body is a temple, why does it fall apart as soon as we leave it? Can sacred things rot? Our purity is a lie perpetuated by perfumes and embalming fluid.

I think the body is more like a forcefully assigned mobile tiny house. Color scheme and all. Through the years rooms get added. Walls break, get rebuilt. The roof leaks, the paint chips. Sometimes the tiny house gets so big it can’t be moved from place to place anymore. Sometimes it’s nothing but paper thin walls and a roof.

And sometimes it’s nothing, feels like less. Until all you want to do is leave that stupid house behind. The broken things that can never be fixed, the good and the ok things too. Because you’ve worked on it, but nothing is ever quite where it should be. And you wonder if you’ll get assigned a new house once you’re gone. And you hope that it will be better.

But you can’t leave a house that has no doors. Not unless you obliterate it.

I don’t feel like a temple. My house feels like the roof is leaking. Cracks on the wall starting to look like windows they’re so big. Like if they get wide enough my house will be consumed. An assured eviction. There’s a part of me that wants to pack, to leave. Find a new house, occupy someone else’s. Scrap this whole weird project called myself because it stopped making sense a long time ago.

But there are days, like today, when I look around and feel a surge of fondness for this place I inhabit. Sunlight on the windows. Gentle breeze coming in through the doors. And I can’t help but think all it needs is a few nails and some different furniture. Brand new and ok. It’ll all be ok.

Until next time, readers.

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