I seated myself at the back of the congregation, silent before the proclamations and condemnations, the fire-and-brimstone treatment burning into my skin, my mind instantly reeling from the declarations of lust and sin.

I could not comprehend how I was the butt-end of this joke, my mental vision filling with smoke, the cries and lies for blood and salvation fell on these deaf ears, on one who had seen and experienced so much through the years.

The colored light and motes of bright white did little to pierce the veil, so small was its effect on the wail in my mind.

First I turned my head, then my heart, then walked out the door; how had these faithful, these virtuous lionizing angels fell through the floor?

How had it come to this?

I’ve sat in God’s room, held my breath and released as the waves washed over me, pregnant with impending doom.  I’ve sat in silence, in contemplation and True Love’s embrace, trying to figure out how I made my way to this sacred space.

Such is this grace, fleeting and devoid of permanence.

I slid the beaded curtain to one side, the object of art so beautifully applied; and entered in the midst of the low moan of a chant.  So many opportunities has my spirit had to recant, that the sin and pain of life that virtue could not supplant.

I sat and joined the melee, the fray of voices where the hopeful pray in faint witness to the melange of souls that I thought would not stray.

I wanted to be still, to walk into a kind of grave, where I would no longer remain a slave to this welded spirit that none seemed able to save.  And in all the attempts, all I found was that I had sacrificed parts of myself, and they had been wasting away in their dusty space on the shelf.

I sat in silence upon the floor, colored fragments of my soul lying prostrate about me.  I picked amongst them and forged them into masks, and hung myself upon the marionette strings once more.

Such were these halcyon days, utterly bereft of meaning or purpose.

I slid my way into the throng, pressing myself into the mass of people; even though I knew I did not belong.  I stood in a circle, heretofore aware of the nature of the heretical; begging my spirit to be released into the pregnant circle.

We grasped each other’s hands and raised our arms, granting ourselves the clearance and guidance to raise ourselves beyond this world’s charms.

There was no sorrow, there was no pain, no hint of the vain or profane; but I could not resist the urge to believe that even perhaps that this soul was sprained.

It is here I that I realize how far I have strayed, how much further I have to go before I can clearly say that I am no longer afraid.

It isn’t enough to say that my soul has been guilty of misinterpretation, or that the confusion encountered is a direct result of the Great Human Conflagration; no, something greater is required before this spirit can be rewired.

Some kind of itch I’ve yet to scratch, some kind of path through a ditch or rough-patch; to this challenge I must be matched, before I can truly call this life “a real catch”.

Epiphany, why are you now plain to see?  I, you, he, we; it’s all the same thing as far as I can see.  It’s a tapestry of all we were meant to be, depending on each other and ourselves in the trials and tribulations we encounter daily.

Though encumbered by our daily failings, maybe its the world that is now paling.  Pallid and pale before the onslaught of human exploration, we valiantly set sail while cognizant of the impending spiritual damnations.

But even amongst the dreams on the endless sea, there are times where the only option is to “be”.  To look on, to look out, to be fearless and without doubt.  Or maybe it isn’t fear, but an idea that we hold dear:

The valuation of determination and exploration, the vision of the mission and the cause… yet something upon these still waters commands me to give pause.

Perhaps this is the cradle of civilizations, the construction made up of conflagrations and condemnations.  Excoriations from patriot nations, giving way to the destruction of static stations birthed by human relations.

But perhaps not, perhaps it’s simply my mind that is simply caught.  Caught in the tangled mess of human thought without the noise and confusion of the human experience to keep me distraught.

Or perhaps it’s just the stillness of water: the silence.

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