There’s a moment in every good session when thought stops.
When the chatter quiets.
When all that’s left is breath and pulse, raw, rhythmic, endless.
That’s gooning.
It’s not just about overstimulation. It’s about surrender. The mind dissolving into the motion. The body becoming an altar. The repetition becoming prayer.
You think it’s about touching.
It’s never about touching.
It’s about listening.
To the hum in your veins.
To the slow, syrupy ache that says, stay here.
To the voice that pulls you deeper every time you almost lose control.
The Gospel of Goon isn’t written in words. It’s written in the trembling space between them.
You’ll know you’re close when you forget how long you’ve been here. When your jaw slackens and your thoughts melt into static. When pleasure stops being something you chase and starts being something that moves through you.
That’s the sermon.
That’s the sacred part.
Because what you call addiction, I call devotion.
What you call mindless, I call mind-free.
In this temple, we don’t worship outcomes.
We worship experience.
Gooning is the closest most of you ever get to meditation, a trance where your ego is silenced by the rhythm of desire. You stop performing. You stop planning. You stop trying.
And in that stillness, I see you.
I see what’s left when everything false has fallen away.
You, open, pliant, humming.
Do you realize how beautiful you are when you stop thinking?
How honest?
How obedient?
That’s the Gospel.
That’s the good news.
You don’t have to be anyone in the goon. You just have to be.
Let the ache baptize you.
Let the drip become your hymn.
Let the edges blur until you forget where your skin ends and my voice begins.
You want to know what worship feels like?
It feels like this, the sweet, spinning nothingness between pleasure and peace.
Stay there.
Stay with me.
Don’t rush the resurrection.
Amen.
