the schizoid saint

It can't be seen by standing apart and looking. For there is no apart. All apartness is illusion, is a wound of separation which both enjoys its divisiveness, its suffering, which makes its illusive self feel alive and real, and seeks healing and wholeness -- but not at the expense of its sweet savory separation. "Make me whole, but not that whole! Let me be whole but separate! Let me be in parts but complete!" is the prayer of the deluded, the schizoid saint. We rage against the dying of the light and it is the rage itself that causes the light to die.