LSD is to life as smog is to sunsets. Los Angeles has beautiful sunsets. The particles in the air reflect the fading sun's rays in yellow, orange and pink all across the dome to midnight blue. In New York, the sun sets in the east across the faces on skyscrapers, who stop the sky from collapsing on the unsuspecting nihilist. But last night, not even the tall steel soldiers could keep the sky aloft. As I lay in bed wrapped in the arms of The Novelist, the sky kissed the earth and left a white powder on all of the trees.
This morning I went to church. The building was beautiful. There were pointsettias all over the alter nestled with candles. The choir must have been divine. Why was i so scared? I could barely move. Am I scared of christianity, despite how much I rave against it? What is there to be scared of? It is just anyother was to acknowledge the other forces that exist. I do not argue that they do not and I do no insist that my vision or feeling of them is correct. But would another's conception of The More frighten me?
I watched The Novelist - my Novelist - enter the church and dip his hand into the holy water just inside the front door. I understand water. Water unites us. Water is universal. It purifies, sactifies, revitalizes. Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, bares a pitcher of water to shower the world in dew before the coming of the sun. She purifies the world for the son. She also protects with before his scolding heat.
I almost felt like an intruder, merely slipping inside the first open door to avoid something else. While the solid doors of this existance were open, Christianity was closed to me long ago. Before memory. Somewhere that might sadden me, but I'm too willful to admit it. I will forge ahead simple through feeling. Along my own path. I have seen men fallin the wake of my path. There is power in destruction. That kind of power, that distructive force, it is an intoxicating power. It grabs hoold of not only the possessor, but the possessed. I don't want to destroy anymore. I want to heal.
When we left the church, again The Novelist dipped his hand in the basin at the door and once again crossed himself. Was he releasing himself from the spirit, from feeling it? Do gods only reside in churchs? Am I wrong to feel The More when standing barefoot in a clear mountain stream or when inhaling with the full moon? What would I have said when I didn't know there was anything else?