Grand gestures and petty emotions. I gift you with an inch and you want seven and a half hours. Something so far fetched that not even the great Aristotle can philosophically concur a meaning. Just as we learn that the Earth is not flat, contrary to popular myth, you present my world with the insane notion of interplanetary jumping. Preying on the naivety of my innocent thinking, you send me a post card with: "How does one count to ten without starting at zero?" And before I can begin to formulate the slightest educated answer to your question, some unknown scientist publishes one sentence that turns my faith into disbelief and debauched reasoning: "Love is, by my own definition, the only perception of non-truth that ends up being true."
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
Comments
Post a Comment