Every-time i pass by the museum i see the old brick catholic church, and i always look at the steel placard on the side of the door that announces the services and confession times, for some reason they are always during the time I am either trying to convince people to buy a lava lite with their drink, or listening to a professor ramble on about the great knowledge they have accumulated into their brains no bigger than mine. I always have the urge to run inside and sit inside the small brown room, covered in old rose wood inscribed with arabesque flowers and crosses, with a small window, a screen and hear the voice of a priest ask me my sins. be drowned into the darkness of this cublicle, and feel the small rays of light being deflected through the stained glass windows...I don't know why i feel this way, i have for years known that man has no power to forgive but the sins committed against him. I don't seek absolution, i don't seek heavenly acceptance or assurance in an after life, all i want is to sit there and have the words unfold, tell my story, say the words that are zipped inside my mind like a compressed file locked up in a small black usb memory stick that fell off my pocket written in code.
Sometimes i honestly think that there is something awkward and innately wrong about me. Ever since i was twelve i have had recurring dreams, dreams that change a bit and dreams that come back identically like yesteryear. I have fears that are not normal, I see things beyond their usual sphere, and i don't know if this is normal. I have contemplated on killing myself but that has now past years ago. I have waken up in the middle of the night and felt my skin ripple, my back fall, as though i had fallen from the ceiling, like someone grabbed me by the collar of the shirt, spoke into my left ear a chant and then let go. I wake up. Not knowing what to make out of it all... i think i am going through a mental break down, funny thing i was telling someone this and they said perhaps it was a breakthrough, perhaps it is. I can't speak to the priests, i feel awkward starting a conversation with my father because no matter what i am wrong, i have lost my sense of religiosity and think to myself i can always go back, praise in public, kneel in front of them all, join the choir, point fingers and quote the good book, but who am i fooling that is not what he had in mind at all...I sometimes think it would be better to suddenly disappear, after all the dreams i keep having over and over show a story unlike the dream of the man i one day would like to be. i don't understand my own writing, i have lost any sense of passion in life and would like to ignite the flare that will create a chemical reaction, a psychotic c4, here we go.... i see the painting, my eyes are adjusting, i'll shut my mouth before describing it, let it focus and then i'll give it a name.