We are made of emptiness, mostly.
If all the pieces of us were moved together, an embrace, we would dance with the angels on the head of a pin.
But we are brute, bloated things.
If I step on a pin I will kill the angels and pierce the tender flesh of my instep.
We might think we are touching each other with these two hands. But those points of contact are nothing but the outermost electrons of our outermost layers, negatively charged, repelling, repelling, repelling. Even when our mouths say yes and our arms open wide, this is drowned out by a chorus the size of a city, singing no, no, no.
If I lived out these truths I would be surprised by little in this life.
But that is what makes us beautiful, or stupid. The way that we say we are made in God’s image.
And who knows? Perhaps we even are.