Friday, November 04, 2005

Something from the story I was writing in high school. I don't know if I still like a lot of it - probably because I am a lot happier and less melodramatic than I was then. But I thought I'd repost a piece of it here. This turned out to be the ending, actually. For some reason I stopped writing.


They say suffering can bring redemption. Well, I think that people say a lot of things. Religion is supposed to be about giving to something bigger, to be finding that small, still thing inside yourself that will tell you, without words, how things are supposed to be. I can't believe that love from your best friend, freely given without throwing around words like "savior" and "redemption" before they even understand, can't make a person truly happy. Die to live is what they're all saying, but then my religion teacher shows up in class with his fancy suits and Rolex watches and wants to tell me that Adam and Eve never were in the garden, there was no literal snake of Temptation, that the Bible was written by senile confused old men that told stories, stuttering, to children who were taught only by them, children who believed that Adam and Eve walked around naked in a tropical jungle where the Lion and the Lamb romped in husky darkness lit only by the glowing of fireflies and the singing of cicadas. But he believes in the ramblings of authors. But he doesn't believe that Genesis happened, that Noah built the Ark. But he believes in the life of John the Baptist, and he believes in the life of Jesus. And I can see the hardening eyes of fifteen girls who sit around a plastic table listening to him thrash in a web of conflicting judgments, he who warned us against prejudice. We don't believe him, and it isn't the lingering childish wish for stories that makes us step back and look at his disappointed face. We KNOW that his speeches have been rehearsed, and that he goes home at night to an empty raw feeling that goes with the absence of unconditional love, just like the rest of us. People want acceptance. But without understanding, when we keep hiding from each other in a darkened warehouse, each of us behind a different empty crate, we are afraid to call out or to answer. My life is like blundering into someone in the dark and feeling their face against my shoulder, accepting them because of our mutual need, because in the darkness, without words, we are equal. We are equally alone.

No comments: