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Catharsis writing
Oct. 12th, 2007 12:03 pmThey took my friend away.
They took my confessor away.
They took my grades away.
They ignored my love.
They undid my spiritual growth.
They sapped my health.
They numbed my brain.
And I love them, but only because I'm supposed to.
I ran away, a Demi-Jonah who thought that he could make it to the blissful ignorance of Tarshish before they took anything else. The fish came though, as it always does, and damn if it didn't simply swallow me up while I was adrift, unconnected on an uncalmed sea.
(Does that metaphor make sense? I think it does, but Dr. Dillon thought I was nuts.)
I'm disordered and wrong. I'm lying and cheating and leeching, a misborn drain on an ailing world. I've fallen asleep waiting for the groom, I've strayed from the course, and I've buried my coins.
The sacrifice acceptable to the LORD is a broken spirit.
Ever notice how beautiful the rain is? Smelling sweet, bringing life, and cleansing what it can, ever so slowly singing to him who gives it strength.
And the trees stand tall, and the Saints of Harkins Hall look down peacefully from their stone heaven on a muddy but renewed Earth filled with the clacking of the friars' beads.
I wonder how Saint Augustine felt when he had to stop being in love. He never writes about it - maybe he never was in love, and it was just really good sex, but he was with his unnamed lady for years, and then she goes off to the cloysters and that's it. If he didn't love her, did she love him? Is that why she consented to being his concubine? I hope he loved her, there aren't enough Saints who had passionate human loves.
They took my confessor away.
They took my grades away.
They ignored my love.
They undid my spiritual growth.
They sapped my health.
They numbed my brain.
And I love them, but only because I'm supposed to.
I ran away, a Demi-Jonah who thought that he could make it to the blissful ignorance of Tarshish before they took anything else. The fish came though, as it always does, and damn if it didn't simply swallow me up while I was adrift, unconnected on an uncalmed sea.
(Does that metaphor make sense? I think it does, but Dr. Dillon thought I was nuts.)
I'm disordered and wrong. I'm lying and cheating and leeching, a misborn drain on an ailing world. I've fallen asleep waiting for the groom, I've strayed from the course, and I've buried my coins.
The sacrifice acceptable to the LORD is a broken spirit.
Ever notice how beautiful the rain is? Smelling sweet, bringing life, and cleansing what it can, ever so slowly singing to him who gives it strength.
And the trees stand tall, and the Saints of Harkins Hall look down peacefully from their stone heaven on a muddy but renewed Earth filled with the clacking of the friars' beads.
I wonder how Saint Augustine felt when he had to stop being in love. He never writes about it - maybe he never was in love, and it was just really good sex, but he was with his unnamed lady for years, and then she goes off to the cloysters and that's it. If he didn't love her, did she love him? Is that why she consented to being his concubine? I hope he loved her, there aren't enough Saints who had passionate human loves.
