(Fiction)
My bloodline is shot through with both the sacred and the profane - the people of my lineage have hearts that long for the Divine, even as our loins lust for earthly carnality.
We are neither saints nor mediocre sinners.
We are scholars of faith, filled with ferocity; prayers drop like pearls from our lips both in public and in private, whispered with anguished sincerity - no hypocrites we, but believers in truth, worshippers in earnest.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: eyes that gaze too long at that which we know to be forbidden, mouths that brush against others' too closely to be chaste, fingers tracing too-sensual patterns on skin that is prohibited to us.
We are reared on adoration of the Beloved and fear of Afterworldly punishment; our voices rise in sacred litanies and impassioned sermons and fierce debates. We believe every word, we speak with no forked tongues, we are inextricable from our convictions.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: our voices dip sinfully low, throaty sighs tinged with transgression, whimpers of desire wrongfully fulfilled, arousal in our blood burning our veins, reminding us even in these moments of our belief in hellfire.
We fall to our knees in penitence, promising ourselves - never again - no more - please - no - it will end - and our prayer mats become worn from prostration and damp with our regrets -
We burn ourselves, over and over and over again.
Our bloodline is blessed and cursed, sacred and profane, holier than the laypeople, more corrupt than the average degenerate.
My bloodline is shot through with both the sacred and the profane - the people of my lineage have hearts that long for the Divine, even as our loins lust for earthly carnality.
We are neither saints nor mediocre sinners.
We are scholars of faith, filled with ferocity; prayers drop like pearls from our lips both in public and in private, whispered with anguished sincerity - no hypocrites we, but believers in truth, worshippers in earnest.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: eyes that gaze too long at that which we know to be forbidden, mouths that brush against others' too closely to be chaste, fingers tracing too-sensual patterns on skin that is prohibited to us.
We are reared on adoration of the Beloved and fear of Afterworldly punishment; our voices rise in sacred litanies and impassioned sermons and fierce debates. We believe every word, we speak with no forked tongues, we are inextricable from our convictions.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: our voices dip sinfully low, throaty sighs tinged with transgression, whimpers of desire wrongfully fulfilled, arousal in our blood burning our veins, reminding us even in these moments of our belief in hellfire.
We fall to our knees in penitence, promising ourselves - never again - no more - please - no - it will end - and our prayer mats become worn from prostration and damp with our regrets -
We burn ourselves, over and over and over again.
Our bloodline is blessed and cursed, sacred and profane, holier than the laypeople, more corrupt than the average degenerate.
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