Sometimes I try to reach God. Somewhere inside. I hear nothing but the tenuous calm that floats within me in deep silence. And despite my mortal unknowing; I somehow *know*. I could be anywhere. That doesn't matter.
Sometimes that works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Sometimes I try try to reach God. And my pulse quickens, because I know the disheveled confines of my room won't do. I know an evening walk won't do, and so I make my way into one of the chambers they say *some* God pays attention to. I walk in, because I have no where else to go.
I don't go to pray. Prayers frighten me; because God has a way of not answering.
I go to find my silence again.
As I sit there, marveling at man's seamless imagination and dexterity; I see others, human, like me walk in. Kneeling, crying, hoping, *praying*. And the piano begins to play almost on cue, as the voices rise in unknown faith, each word growing wings, making its way up to the angels, their voices believe exist.
I cannot find my silence here, amidst tears, and desperate pleading- Talking to this figure that stands firm with the strength of all their hopes.
I see hunger in their eyes. And I see haplessness.
I kneel, I stand, I bow, I light a candle, but I don't know why.
I wonder if my thoughts are worthy of attention, between the many tears that surround me.
I cannot get passed my inability to see beyond the literature, and lose myself in the moral confines of these Gods of right and wrong. But I cannot deny that feeling of something calm setting in when inside a designated house of god.
It could be the collective faith of a great many unknowing mortals like me, that helps me momentarily forget the bureaucracy of it all and feel the magic of the faithful. It could be the exigent and prodigious hope that is insatiable the moment you step in. The unburdening; transposing of a pain that would otherwise consume the weary.
It could be the collective yearning. It could be anything.
I sometimes try to reach God. And muffled between the saintly tingling of the church's bell, and my little my quiet space within, sometimes, I think I reach God. Sometimes I don't.
Sometimes that works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Sometimes I try try to reach God. And my pulse quickens, because I know the disheveled confines of my room won't do. I know an evening walk won't do, and so I make my way into one of the chambers they say *some* God pays attention to. I walk in, because I have no where else to go.
I don't go to pray. Prayers frighten me; because God has a way of not answering.
I go to find my silence again.
As I sit there, marveling at man's seamless imagination and dexterity; I see others, human, like me walk in. Kneeling, crying, hoping, *praying*. And the piano begins to play almost on cue, as the voices rise in unknown faith, each word growing wings, making its way up to the angels, their voices believe exist.
I cannot find my silence here, amidst tears, and desperate pleading- Talking to this figure that stands firm with the strength of all their hopes.
I see hunger in their eyes. And I see haplessness.
I kneel, I stand, I bow, I light a candle, but I don't know why.
I wonder if my thoughts are worthy of attention, between the many tears that surround me.
I cannot get passed my inability to see beyond the literature, and lose myself in the moral confines of these Gods of right and wrong. But I cannot deny that feeling of something calm setting in when inside a designated house of god.
It could be the collective faith of a great many unknowing mortals like me, that helps me momentarily forget the bureaucracy of it all and feel the magic of the faithful. It could be the exigent and prodigious hope that is insatiable the moment you step in. The unburdening; transposing of a pain that would otherwise consume the weary.
It could be the collective yearning. It could be anything.
I sometimes try to reach God. And muffled between the saintly tingling of the church's bell, and my little my quiet space within, sometimes, I think I reach God. Sometimes I don't.
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