The migraine pressed against my skull, slanting thought upon layered thought, together, as the wheels glide over the slick pavement. The sharp echo of road bladed against my suspended pain– I close my eyes only to open them to the jungle of civilization. Concrete buildings and the jumbled flood of that great migration, rush hour downtown, minds bustling and bumping about, pockets full of and hearts hollow.
We arrive. I stand in awe of man’s belief built, bound, contained, tainted by the firmness of stone.The chill of shy spring caresses my legs. Crossing into the haven, I dust of the cold from my chest. We sit. I study the grain of wood the knows. I glaze my eyes with the blue serenity of sacred glass.I defrost my heart with the radiance of painted purity. I do not feel the divine here– here is only respect for the divine. Bodies that stand, move down the line and settle back into the upholding bench of self-scrutiny, reflections on the muddled murk of morality. One kneels. The stifling whisper of a page being turned, divides. We move further down the line. Here, inwardly, I replay all — and
The confessional door opens. An elderly man hobbles out renewed, a fresh flower among wilted roses. I enter the booth and tentatively kneel.
” Bless me father for I am sin.”
I stare through the screen in front of me trying to puzzle together the mysterious face that calmly tells me to take my time and list my crimes.
- falling into my all consuming void
- fear and cowardice
- tainted love
My mind wanders to the drive there; To my mother turning the steering wheel in her jerky, fast-paced life style and a man sitting on the side of the road with nothing more than time on his hands.
‘Help. Anything helps. Hungry. Homeless.’
The agonizing moment of noticing poverty before you can ignore it. We have somewhere to be. We hunger for god. He hungers…
” I absolve you of your sins in the name of the father the son and the Hol- ”
-iness is just an illusion.
I emerge from the booth heavier than when I entered.
We fail to see
that love isn’t love without loving.
She drive. I open my mouth. Tell her to stop. We must have something to give, even just words, they help, but we have somewhere to be.
He hungers for love.
I fall asleep thinking one day I will be brave enough to tell her,
” Practice what you Preach.”
Thank you for stopping by and reading, commenting, giving me your thoughts and feed back. Love you all, my little ink angels.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”