I was either doomed or destined to find myself questioning my faith.
I was raised Catholic, raised to be perpetually guilty.
Grew up believing that Jesus and Mary would give me everything I would ever want and need as long as I asked politely and said a whole lot of nice shit about them.
A beast like me does not have to concern itself with sin. I give heaven a good headache I bet. Nonetheless, the cross keeps me up straight whenever I start to slump over.
I whimper when I speak. I cling to my rosary like a moth on the ceiling.
I hear the voice of God more clearly when every hour feels like 3 am.
I am so lost but my foot is angled to make the next step. I have learned to walk barefooted on razorblades and I am standing at the edge of falling. I may talk too much about religion, and become obsessed with using the term “royally fucked” to describe my shitty life, yet I think it’s interesting how the virtuous and the profane are such opposites, and how urged we are to entertain the both of them simultaneously.
I am a believer but all I can see is people’s hands.
I imagine them fingering through their bibles and it makes me hard.
I was rebellious with a reason when I was young. I was seeking freedom from imposed beliefs. Picking the locks of the doors to “forbidden” dogmas.
Kickin’ it with Krishna. Buddies with Buddha.
Mackin’ it with Marx to spite authority,
Drawin’ portraits of communist leaders on my notebooks in Catholic school while pretending to pray.
Readin’ the Kama Sutra in secret with my hand down my pants when I should be studying.
I’m not innocent. I watch internet porn. I wonder how many women out there are actually happy to fuck dogs or drink bowls of semen or be peed on.
I jerk off and I feel guilty because its Sunday and I’m too catholic for my own good.
I expect that the ones who still attend mass every Sunday to have sinned horribly the night before. Hell, it took a hundred Hail Mary’s to get me out of bed this morning. I am going to clear my internet browsing history today just in case Jesus wants to come over later.
Somewhere in the seedy basement of my thoughts, these images and sounds become digitized, sweep through banks of servers, and are accessed by thousands of Wi-fi Hi-Def angels somewhere else in the world just waiting to condemn me.
Santa Claus too probably. I’m going to get a lump of shit for Christmas this year, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell.
People have called me gentleman, but am I really all that gentle?
You are probably like me, clandestinely in love with your own self disgust. We all have grown fond of that little worm that squirms in all of our guts. Feeling like filth is the only thing to make you cum sometimes. I’m not sure why that is, but eventually you’re going to want it harder, and more and more disgusting.
We’re done wearing ribbons, holding hands, celebrating our spiritual concentration camps. We have dismantled the recess bell. We aren’t children anymore.
You no longer have to sing in the rain, you can fucking sleep in it if you damn well please.
Complacency, I think.
This is the silent-killer. The seed of a noxious weed that grows up to choke everyone misfortunate enough to share the same soil.
But first it’s getting myself to acknowledge complacency is an actual problem
(that’s hard. I mean, how many alcoholics actually make it to an AA meeting?).
Then it’s getting me to stop placing blame solely on bias. My psyche may or may not continue to disintegrate into a hamper of nothingness that I will just rebuild with mental amusement parks.
Some may say I’ve become lost this way.
But you never really know what nothingness is.
You can’t comprehend it because your world is thick with 24/7 sensation. For instance, There’s an ache in my shoulder right now, a dull little thing that’s soon to blossom into real hurt.
Could be a spider bite, a pulled muscle or something else.
Could be Opus Dei.
Nature abhors a vacuum, don’t you know?
So many people run from themselves for so long and so far that they ACTUALLY get lost,
and that in itself is worth a Bob Dylan song.
In aspects of strength and vision and perception
I see and know more than there is any understandable, reasonable, perceivable truth inherent and within.
I touch knowingly – present or not just because I can.
I am a threat to you, because of this.
I am a threat to everyone.
It is our choice how we live. Our world is upside down and all we can do is reach into ourselves and grasp the faith of our ancestors and our plucky little religions and remember who and what we are.
Time flies, and soon our bones will no longer carry the burden of this fleshy life lived solely in the dark. We have the choice to live how we please and how we choose, with the energy of connected elements, a God, or no God, animals, humans and what is and what isn’t.
When we have this miracle-
No longer do we care that we are outsiders to the center of it all.
The terra of faith.
Dreams bud here; their roots climb in our soul.
Roots that no evil or d-evil can destroy.
If you refuse to lay down with dogs of a melancholy world, you are not dead and you are not alone. For dogs too crave an elevated peace.
We are all children. On your knees, let your faith raise you up taller than you’d be if you stood up. Allow your emptiness to fulfill you.
Losing faith is the deep six.
Cold as death.
Don’t whisper silently to yourself about the past and how you once believed and how all lives have been lied to; how those steeples do deceive.
No, because life means learning to let your words stand as spoken, a broken place in the heart of those who listen. Life means reaching to find hope in an inhospitable space. Searching to accept comfort in blind reassurances. Life means always wanting to believe in something bigger.
Faith is intangible.
It is as conceptual and euphoric as eternity, or infinity, or happily ever after.
But if faith is believing in something,
I’ve got faith in you.