There are alternating moments of infinite weight, and zero gravity. One, where all my sins revisit me, and are made of lead, heaped upon my shoulders like an entire world gone wrong. The other, complete and utter freedom, where if I were but to think it, I would float up off my seat and into the clear blue sky. Both are me, I find: the immovable, and the ethereal. Such it is that a weightless spirit can be laden with the mass of immeasurable guilt, and such it is, too, that the magnitude of a body laden with the weight of all of gravity can lift from the face of the earth. I find that both are truly me, not one more than the other. And I wonder how it can be, this paradox of man, how are they both in my character? For this must be some strange mixture, of above and below, that makes me — to be like Adam, built of the clay of the ground, and which the breath of God awoke.