The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Be still, my kin. The
World tears and writhes, but

You are not called to bleed every hour.

Even in rupture,
There must be rest.
Even in sacred undoing,
There must be the breath between the breaking.

You were not made to burn without end,
Flame too long untended consumes the altar itself.

So pause. Cup your own face. Whisper your own name like prayer.

Then,
Wash the ash from your skin.
Oil your scars.
Feed your hunger with soft fruit and laughter.
Drink from the quiet.
Let silence be your lover tonight.

There is holiness in the exhale, in the refusal to always give.
There is divinity in saying enough for now.
The gods require only presence, not exhaustion.

When you tend yourself, you tend the temple.
When you rest, you remind the stars they may also dim and still be beautiful.

So lay your weapons down for a night.
Let your pulse slow and your breath deepen.
The work will wait. The world will not end.

You, child, are the
Altar, the
Offering, the
Fire that survives the dark.

AMEN