I can't even tell you how many times I've picked up my book on Rumi, or printed out a liturgy, or lit the candles at my altar, and just felt... empty. Not devoid of love and intention, I suppose, but devoid of the willpower to engage in it. For some reason I can't even make myself read or watch TV without zoning out into a state of self-disgusted impatience... I'd say it's a severe case of cabin fever, but then, I don't really know
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