Clouds of red dust billow across the barren plain, engulfing the blackened and skeletal remains of a few scattered trees. The tower bell tolls behind me, resonating mournfully through the decrepit remains of the old wooden church, a sad reminder of old hopes. The congregation lays dead and decomposing inside, a tribute to plague and my own broken sense of empathy and honor.
Holistic living does not guarantee a bridge to heaven if your thoughts are still deemed to be impure but it certainly does help with your own sense of self-importance. Whilst outwards debauchery is punishable by a lifetime in exile, hypocrisy ensures a lifetime of false comforts and an eternity of ruin. The inner circles of Hell are ignorant to the fact that every Sunday was spent in the front pew and are simply hungry for the other six days spent in a maelstrom of sin.
A church full of hypocrites only answer to themselves and every attempt to dissuade them was met with the venomous force of a thousand loose tongues and the threat of ex-communication. A black robe and a scattering of rosary beads do not signify a leader, but rather a puppet for the most vocal majority. Strings were knotted and actions were forced upon me that I still cannot defend, nor forgive.
I try to remember what the wooden cross around my neck once stood for but fall short of anything but abandonment. As always, this emptiness leads me into a parallel with the last days of Christ himself, but I dismiss this again as a heretical delusion of grandeur. Christ was only forsaken for his last hours but I have been forsaken my whole life by anything except a few scraps of scripture and a sliver of ill-advised fantasy.
As fervor turns to a genuine sense of doubt, it is only time that stands between me and the apocalypse.
Holistic living does not guarantee a bridge to heaven if your thoughts are still deemed to be impure but it certainly does help with your own sense of self-importance. Whilst outwards debauchery is punishable by a lifetime in exile, hypocrisy ensures a lifetime of false comforts and an eternity of ruin. The inner circles of Hell are ignorant to the fact that every Sunday was spent in the front pew and are simply hungry for the other six days spent in a maelstrom of sin.
A church full of hypocrites only answer to themselves and every attempt to dissuade them was met with the venomous force of a thousand loose tongues and the threat of ex-communication. A black robe and a scattering of rosary beads do not signify a leader, but rather a puppet for the most vocal majority. Strings were knotted and actions were forced upon me that I still cannot defend, nor forgive.
I try to remember what the wooden cross around my neck once stood for but fall short of anything but abandonment. As always, this emptiness leads me into a parallel with the last days of Christ himself, but I dismiss this again as a heretical delusion of grandeur. Christ was only forsaken for his last hours but I have been forsaken my whole life by anything except a few scraps of scripture and a sliver of ill-advised fantasy.
As fervor turns to a genuine sense of doubt, it is only time that stands between me and the apocalypse.
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