Being stoically pathetic

What if I could learn to love being at the mercy of the irrational? Like how a nun gives away her love with posterity?

I could walk a thousand steps in a circle to remind myself that I begin where I end, and that at the center there is a judgment- and all the great stoics would rise from their tombs to put coins on my eyes so I could better see the journey that I’m on.

But if I scrub myself raw, would my skin forget?

Could I bypass all of that?

If I got rid of every molecule, would it already be too late? Maybe your atoms have swapped places with mine by now. Confused guests in an unwelcome home, born out of a misunderstanding like most unwelcome things are.