Oh! How the vain ego loves to play god and gloat over all the faults of His creation.

How little do we realize that we ourselves unconsciously project those problems so that we might be continuously excited over them and be challenged again and again to change them for what seems better (which is in reality much worse) so that once again the spirit of vainglory is challenged to new lows of triumph.

How desperate we have been for others to cry out in need. How we needed their needs, and by “helping,” made them need us again.

We were glad that no one was perfect, so that we could glorify ourselves by worrying about them and coming to their aid like an angel from heaven. We once enjoyed taking account of all our grudges and reveling in memories of past glories.

This was the substance of our ugly pride. It would sit and worry and reminisce about conquests, and peer into its storehouse of intellectual

achievements. Our minds abounded in the knowledge that testified to our glory and outshouted our growing conscience as it testified to the contrary.

To all this noise was added the din of distraction that made us forget how wrong we were and made us forget the truth that we labored not for our conscience (which we were wont to disbelieve) but for the spirit of vainglory.

We labored for effect; with a few pretty words we tickled other deluded souls to tickle our vanity back again with approval.

We infected the world with problems in the guise of love so that we would have something to gripe about, gloat over and worry about—

all of which made us seem to be superior beings.

"Oh! How the vain ego loves to play god and gloat over all the faults of His creation. "

In exchange for a sense of worth, power and glory, we traded our bodies; we served a wrong purpose, hoping upon hope that the purpose we served would be our very own.

With worry we hoped to serve our ego a notion of its concern for others in place of our failure to love them. We focused on the image of ourselves nobly worrying to mask the fact that we were using others to create this noble image of ourselves.

What helpless pitiful things we created. Like Dr. Frankenstein, we sired rebellious monsters who soon began to fight against our need to feel saintly, who used our hypocrisies to champion their egos’ glory.

In the guise of making them better we made them more imperfect so that we could have a full-time preoccupation of worry to forget our miserable selves.

That must all go. And fall away it will—psychic vampires, wolves in sheep’s clothing you will be no more.