I think I am good. I do noble things. I even sometimes sacrifice a little for others. But I am too aware of my darker self. I have no illusions of holiness. The knot of flesh that seeks to rule my life, it whines and writhes in the agony of selfish pity; a self inflicted torment; a spiritual black hole. It is clear to me now that my sin is not merely an ethical schism. It is a prison for my mind.
I keep myself with personal and social checks that waver only in times of intense emotion. Most of the time I seem good, but painted across my chest is the scarlet letter of my inner most being. I am a devil. My inner child screams, "I am good!" But in this context, I know I deserve hell.
All of this is dark, but it is not depressing. Because of this, the salvation given to me is that much more amazing; that much more precious. It is a white hot crack in the encasement of my mind; a fissure in the chains that bind my will.
Sanctus, peccator... nosce te ipsum. Renascere!