There Is A New Cathedral Rising, though it has no walls, no stained glass, no choir loft, it is built in the mirror, in the reflection of every passing window, in the glow of a screen that dares to show you yourself, the liturgy is simple, adore. Adore without hesitation, adore without apology, adore as if the act itself were the most sacred of sacraments. We have been told for centuries to bow before distant idols, to kneel at altars carved by others, to worship beauty only when it is sanctioned by the collective, but the revolution is quieter, more devastating and far more amusing, the altar is your own face, the relic is your own body, the scripture is the way you walk into a room knowing you are the masterpiece, of course, cynics will scoff, they will mutter about vanity, about narcissism, about the collapse of civilization under the weight of too many selfies, let them, their skepticism is the incense that burns at the edge of this ceremony, for the truth is that adoration of the self is not a frivolity, it is the first commandment, without it, every other devotion is counterfeit. So yes, adore yourself with the fervor of a zealot, adore the curve of your shoulder, the cadence of your voice, the audacity of your existence, nake it a religion, if you must. And when the ritual is complete, when you have crowned yourself with the halo of your own approval, then and only then, may you extend your worship outward. Because adoration of beauty begins here, in the mirror and only after that do you adore everything else.
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