May 2015
There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash
I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream
She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.
Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.
No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.
Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.
Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.
Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.
But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.
And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.
What a guy I was!
But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash
I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream
She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.
Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.
No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.
Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.
Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.
Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.
But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.
And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.
What a guy I was!
But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.
