What is spirituality?

It is sighing every time I speak, or write. It is the sigh that comes directly following an instance where I have spoken, or written.

It is keeping my house clean, my dishes washed, my email in-box cleaned out.

It is hanging on to the Gospel with my mind and my heart underneath my body that does otherwise. A mouth that says other things, eyes that divert, senses that meander exponentially every direction. It is knowing the delineation of peace and repentance, that tension between what is and what isn't, ideal and actual, potential and spent energy.

It is a profound personal reality, a reclusivity in the face of the throng, it is the mirror through which my body is seen in its context, a puppet, a dancing fool.

It is the wide chasm between myself and those with whom I interact daily. It is what binds me to them and elucidates the vast distances between us.

It is a millstone, broken glass in my boots, barbed wire around my ribs, eyes blinded by lye, a spider of contrition on my brow. It is the race from nothingness to somethingness, it is the inversion of language, the lessening of the thing in order for it to be made more.

It is what is hidden and what reason must obey but can't reconcile. It is what one uses to privately sever any desire to justify oneself in the sunlight to the world.

It is being vague and concise, it is acknowledging certain binaries as existing for certain reasons, and understanding the primal urge to smash them, but seeks to move through nothingness into the aforementioned primal somethingness.

It is what begins to understand the profundity and sophistication of the Christ on the Cross, the center of the cosmos, of time, or reality.

Language is a rolling colored-water wave machine on a desk in an administrator's office, it lolls back and forth over The Fulcrum, balancing and redistributing the equation again and again, waiting for the eschaton.