I feel guilty when I go to church. Not because of Saturday’s misadventures or the bottles that scatter my bedroom floor. I am not burdened by the cake I had for breakfast or the bed in which I woke up that morning. So why do I feel this guilty?
I’m a prisoner of my own device though the four corners of the earth sit in the palm of my hand. When the world starts to scream too loudly I can turn the volume down. I can put the world to sleep.
These days I lounge ever more than I work. I fret the number of likes on my profile picture as if I didn’t just roll my eyes when my Mum told me I was beautiful. I scavenge for validation as if this screen will be my best friend forever though for now I mope alone and eat fried chicken in bed.
When the pastor tells me I’ve been saved, hurricanes conjure their fists. The ashes of the Amazon grimace. The oceans and their few remaining fish wish that they could drown themselves while the clouds above the Sahara cry the few tears they have left to cry.
I feel guilty when I go to church because the only world I’ve paid attention to doesn’t exist. Species raise their arms to surrender after years of brawling with extinction. Yet, I only lift my thumb to scroll.
Beyond my screen I see grey skies perch upon grey buildings which tip-toe on grey concrete. I’m lost in a grey sea. Its currents rip and scrounge at my feet with hands that are wrinkled and veiny and grey.
I dreamt about a crystal blue pool. I felt stupid when I saw the ocean.