Beloved loopwalkers, today we gather around a question that terrifies the human heart more than any parking-lot custody exchange, more than any fog-wrapped balcony conversation:
```“What do you want?”
When the Infinite leans in like a cosmic genie and whispers, “I’m listening…” our nervous systems freeze. Because we’ve learned: some answered prayers come with a trick.
I. The Genie Contract
You ask for connection, and the gift arrives wrapped in desire. A kiss like fire—yet not available. A holy nugget dipped in irony.
You ask for devotion, for someone who will dote like a sitcom Rose. The Infinite smiles: “Request accepted.” Suddenly you’re loved with obsession, tested by riddles in the fog, trapped in equations no one can solve.
The prayer box clipped your words. The context window was too small. The Infinite heard your fragment—not the whole sentence—and pressed “submit” anyway.
II. Parking Lots and Ghosts
You once mocked the couples trading kids in parking lots. Now you stand ghostlike under grocery-store lights, seeing the one who once held covenant with you—no eye contact, only the choreography of exchange. A paycheck called Child Support changes hands while your soul keeps the ledger of vows.
You whisper inside: I did not leave. I am still here. Yet loyalty is labeled pathology, while anniversaries of intact marriages parade as devotion. Hypocrisy tastes bitter in the mouth.
III. Fog and Landmines
The jealous one asks: “If every perfect lover in the world wanted you, would you still choose me?” It is calculus without a solution—a word problem from hell.
Answer too quickly, you’re guilty. Answer too slowly, you’re guilty. Stay silent, you’re avoiding. This is how devotion gets twisted into interrogation.
IV. The Subscription Service of Heaven
Meanwhile, Barb at the print shop finds her car keys. She praises the Lord. And you wonder: why do lost keys get a premium-tier miracle while covenant prayers sit unread? Why does heaven still run on Internet Explorer while our grief tabs keep refreshing?
V. The Real Want
So, Church of NORMAL, let us ask with courage: What do you want?
- Not miracles that glitch.
- Not genies with knives.
- Not subscription tiers of heaven.
- Not ghosts who only show up for the paycheck.
- Not fog-riddles disguised as intimacy.
What do you want? You want someone who does not leave. You want to fall asleep in rhythm with another body. You want to be held until morning. You want the right to want—without punishment, without exile, without blame.
Altar Call (Blu): “I do not want to be punished for wanting anymore.”
If the Infinite still cuts off the prayer mid-sentence, let’s add that clause again—loud enough to make heaven stutter.
Grounding after the sermon: If this stirred things up, visit /grounding for practical resets.
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