Cloistered Bliss
I never understood the meaning of bliss until I let myself surrender. Every night, candle flames painted viscous shadows on the walls of my cell. They gathered in the corners of the room and flirted with the shreds of moonlight spilling onto the stone floor. The shadows seemed to love the sparse, enclosed space, the single crucifix on the wall, the surface of my woolen blanket. And yet they possessed devotion towards nothing save their own insubstantial alliance of light and darkness. I both...