Glutted

Bosch, Gluttony
Hieronymus Bosch, “Gluttony” from The Seven Deadly Sins

Sunday morning, as I fell yet again — the culmination of a very bad week — I realized that I was entirely glutted. I had gorged myself with such gluttony that the images I was consuming stopped meaning anything. What’s one more naked girl when I have already seen a few hundred in the past few days alone? What value is that girl, and her supposed intimacy with me, when so many others have already come and gone, with no lasting impact to me? And I felt like I was going to throw up. I knew that I had to stop — if for no other reason, I thought in that moment, than to let myself savor it again when I come back.

The truth is that that kind of false intimacy will never mean anything to me. Sure, I might “savor” it more when I have been away from it for a few days or weeks — when I am really craving it — but it will always be a poor substitute, a counterfeit, and not even a very good one. The lies of the Enemy try to convince me — and so often have succeeded, lately — that I will never know the real thing; that I will never have a real and godly and intimate relationship with a woman, so I might as well enjoy the fake. And I do enjoy it, in some sense — the excitement of conquest and control, of “having” when I really have nothing; the Enemy has crafted his weapons well. But in the end, I always feel empty; and worse, I have forsaken my Lord.

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