We spend our whole lives building walls. Drywall. Ego. Prejudice. Then we drill a single hole in them just to remind ourselves that we are not an island.
At the gloryhole, there is no past. No future. No paycheck or pedigree. There is only the now . And in that now, I practice a radical, profane gospel: To swallow is to take the bitter, the salty, the shameful, and instead of spitting it back into the world… you absorb it. You make it part of you. You digest the ghost of it.
And that is the point.
There’s a hole in the wall. Chest-high. Patched with duct tape and graffiti. On my side, I’m just knees on cold concrete. I can’t see his face. I don’t know his name, his sins, or if he voted the same way I did. I know nothing.
It was in a cracked tile bathroom at a truck stop off Interstate 9. A place that smells of bleach, stale cigarettes, and desperation. A place where the lights flicker like a dying heartbeat. gloryhole swallow faith
You think faith is only found in stained glass and hymnals? Let me tell you where I found mine.
Because in that moment, I have to make a choice. Do I bite? Do I run? Do I weaponize my fear? Or do I receive ? We spend our whole lives building walls
I don’t know his name. But in the three seconds after the shudder, before the footsteps fade, there is a silence more sacred than any cathedral. It’s the silence of two broken people who, for just one moment, didn’t hurt each other.