clanking into the fray

We clothe the core of our being with plan and desire. We wear a cloak of expectation and should.  We do not hear the words: "Throw off all your clothes and trample them beneath your feet." We pitch little fits of exasperation, insisting on donning the latest fashion of ourselves. We refuse to stand naked and vulnerable and open. We clank around in our armor. Our souls chafe. At times, despite our best efforts, we fall into joy. Joy needs no protection, no garb. Joy is open radiance with no end. Until we end it and decide that we must "go to work" or "face the world" or whatever other hypnotic suggestion of containment with which we trance ourselves. No joy for us! We contract rather than condense. We protect ourselves by becoming more dead. We ward off the expected assassin's strike by stabbing ourselves. We put on our armor and clank into the fray.