**** it, my curiosity is too strong. I take my first steps and hope at the same time, a staff member exits at the same time. To help with my nervousness and attend to me.
Not seeing anyone, no-one at all, staff or patron.
Inside it’s cold, darkly lit and reddish in the background. With no soft or hard light from the sun outside, where humanity can benefit from. It doesn’t look like a church but does have the feeling of a dogmatic overtone and a place for shared and public worship. But I do need a staff member, really not to help deal with my angst. I walked to the front where a picture of Baphomet hangs in human glory. Looked past and saw a sign, ‘office’ with an arrow below it. Finally some help.
This is all on account of freedom of movement and beliefs.
And naturally my angst slowly leaves and I accept at the same pace as my reasons for being here. Plus my intellect had begun to be curious and that must be indulged.
Standing outside the office, it’s closed and enorcaged anyone to sit and pray to Baphomet. I shrug my shoulders and walked back and waited for the general hall.
A moment sitting alone in the hall. A strong acceptance fell over and cleanse my inner world and everything here became beautiful and privately said goodbye to my old life.
Looking at my watch and realizing I had been here for three hours. I wanted to laugh very loudly. I turned around and the only person is sitting here in the hall. A brunette, middle-aged women who dressed so much alike to the middle class. We instantly made eye contact and returned in a polite British head nod. I smiled and waved hello. She looks highly innocent, so to notice all the art here, to know what this building is and it’s intended use. The sight is quite amusing and it’s not a clap at her. I do not even know her.
I turned around and the painting of Baphomet stole my eyesight. She sat next to me. “I’m Carol. This is the third time I’ve seen someone from the public here. It seems they all come at night. I and the staff have started to run out of things to talk about.”
When she stopped talking, I made polite eye contact with her. Her hand is extended. “I’m Ayn.”
We shake hands. “Like the author.” She giggles.
“Unfortunately.” I breathe and go back to looking at the painting. “Have you been a member long?”
“Most of my adult life.” Carol looks middle ages, sweeter than honey and reminds me of a first crush, the girl down the street. “I found it practical and fulfilling. A place to learn about self-responsibility.” She faces the same painting. She sighs. “Glorious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I must admit. Very appealing, very tempting and aesthetically satisfying.” I replied.
“What brings you here?” Carol asks, adjusting her body to face me. I’m wondering why she isn’t at work.
“I’m starting to believe it’s false hope or misleading information.” I light a smoke. When I first saw the signs encouraging to do so. “It’s vice.”
I breathed out, thinking I just ****** it up for myself or just stepped on the wrong feet. Carol laughs and giggles. “Well, I don’t support that reason to join. But you’ll find a lot of that around.” Carol asks for a smoke. I oblige. “You know, you don’t need satanism to fill out your vice orders. I’m sure there are theatres for that.”
“I’ve tried the **** theatre’s, it doesn’t help,” I replied. Happy she isn’t angry. She’s cute.
“You’re not moonlighting are you?”
I wanted to laugh. “No. I’m a writer.” She pulls back. “Don’t worry about it. It’s romance and despises the media.”
“We got a lot of journos. And you know what they say about the romantic artist?”
I smiled. I knew what she is implying. “They’re most honest people in the world. I can’t speak for the rest of them, that applies to me. I just know what love is and what lust is. I can only find lust and when in love, something pulls us apart.”
“Maybe it’s destiny. I’m happy you’ve taken an interest, but you shouldn't watch those propaganda videos.” Carol stands and extends her hand. “I’m still a woman, so you’ll need to work for my holy parts, but I’ll take you home and school you.” I think about it for a moment. “You know it’s hard to start over alone.”
It’s senseless to think one can live without the other. Firm delicate poetry life. Modern and it goes beyond meaning with words and I guess it means it’s in her. Filtered sunlight. The full context of myself, trying to find one place here on earth to fit in and to go beyond that size. Silver moonlight. But when one fights their own monster, fights against death, respect for trying, but fails regardless. But my own desires is too overwhelming and wanting everything now to be acted. Learning at her place, *** came later. The first lesson, that the devil takes on more faces than God himself. An enigmatic holiness.
The perfume of fame is desperation and the insecurity is high on inside one’s soul.
Translate from the metaphysical is in inarticulated words, faceless and the meaning is in the symbols, changing patterns. Few paths lead to personal enlightenment. Devout only to thyself, my own will, thoughts and toiling hands, open to my artwork. Stellar like the patterns of constellations. By accident, I stumbled upon something I should never know about and finally, I comprehend the totality of existence.
I head out west and found myself close to central Australia. I took only two full outfits of clothes and the clothes I wore wearing on my back. No food, just only books, and writing materials. Everything else including the bible had grown proven of no need for me. I set up camp, rented a room to this middle-aged couple, who lost their spark and self-questioned if they even had started with pure love in the first place. It’s hot on a constant thread, it didn’t bother me, I grew used to it and when I’m alone, I worked and read naked. Languish for eternity. Magic in isolation.
My method of writing just writes like what I’m doing now, over the typewriter. From the second edit, through my grammar software on a computer from either the late nineties or early two-thousands and if I’m really hot passionate about the project, I work naked. Like everyone should.
I’m writing a novel about two lovers. Cliche now, but people like it and at the moment with fiction writing. Romance seems to be what I’m good at. Now, the two lovers, man, and woman. The man, a young poet, constantly homeless and the woman, a painter. In the evening heat, meet and the woman runs, not able to embrace love and the man, insecure. Nothing special. You’ll have to read the book once it’s published. It’s where the poets live. Now, this is the current book I’m writing on. ‘When Love Steps Outside’. I got a few pages in this days writing. A knock on the door, it’s her, Sharron. The wife who owns this house.
I stopped typing. I whirled around on my old fashion chair. “Yes, Sharron.”
She peeks her head in. “Good, you’re not naked.” She closes the door behind her. “I’ve got a young lady here, she says her name is Anastasia. You know her?”
“No,” I answered, lighting a smoke and trying to recall the name. “Is she in a suit?” Hoping she is from the publishing house.
“She isn’t. But is dressed very posh. Like a royal.” I told Sharon to bring her in. but not to leave my room once she is here. “Maybe a girlfriend? Afterall you spend all your time reading and writing.” Sharron said as she left my room.
I dusted myself off and attempted to finish my smoke. It’s always obvious we miss.
Sharron knocked on the door and I stood up. “Come in.” My face turned blank. “You must be Anastasia? It’s nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to shale, instead, all I saw was a woman who is beyond the beauty of this world.
She wasn’t replying to the gesture. Looking back now, she seemed a touch scared. Not of me. “Are you the writer on French couple who stumbled upon the pope’s library?” An old book. Anastasia moves around another book with her hands, across her belly. Maybe she didn’t shake my hand on account of that.
“Yeah, it was my third fictional piece.” My shoulders shrug. I turned around and spoke. “I must admit, I’m not as scared as I thought I’ll be. When meeting such a devoted fan. I moved to Sydney almost a year ago. No one here knows who I am.” I begin to sign my autograph. “It’s flattering that you found me.”
I lift up my autograph. “I have read your work and I am not a fan.” She sits on the bed and I realize Sharron isn’t here. “That book, it sounds too familiar to me.”
“Well, I”m sure it’s been done before. Most things have in literature and film.” I sat too.
“I mean, like in my personal life.” She cut me off.
I breathed and lit another smoke. “Look, I am no genius. I’m sorry you like a boy who doesn’t know you exist or you fell in love with your man and learned he’s an *******. I don’t even own a cat. I just write about love. It’s fiction truth.” I took a puff from the cigarette stick and enjoyed heavily.
She shakes her. “No. it’s a combination of past and present, maybe some bad grammar. Your book. It tells the story of my parents.” She takes a photo out the book she walked in with. “Here.” I take a look, her mother is more beautiful than she is. “Do you know them?” I told her no. “I would like to come with me.”
How easy is it to judge things we do not understand? This isn’t a sermon or something to be pretentious about. Not do I wish to look down. Sinners are everywhere and most of them have been drenched over and have a public veil with saints and worse, praised about it. Where Anastasia took me. It’s where evil dwells.
I had sold my soul