Writers Jam

These days I pray. Plead to a God, somewhere, somehow to just look out for me. I don't ask for anything bigger than what I can provide for myself. Anything else would fantastical, and frankly, naive. But I've come to realize that even the most war-hardened general needs his metaphysical fluffy blanket to keep him warm in the freezing uncertainity.

These days I search. Spend hours scrolling on Pinterest, compiling every single plate, and every curtain that I need to buy for a home of my own. Everything's neatly arranged in their own boards, just waiting for a worthy wallet to rescue them from their curated prison towers.

These days I linger. Wait on the sidelines for perfectly ephemeral moments to drift by, like bubbles on the beach. I take a long, hard look at all that I have and I take in all that I can. I greedily try to hold on to what will inevitably burst faster the more I try.

It wasn't always like this though.

I used to believe in God like my body was a temple, my actions the prayers, and my soul the home of the sacred. Belief in something bigger than myself gnawed at my heart and warmed me from within. I used to live big without want. A sort of childish certainity that things will fall into place regardless. Without a single care about the logic and the logistics. Without the terror of having to catalogue memories and passions and feelings, for how could a person even forget what lead them to themselves?

I turn back, Orpheus to my own younger Eurydice. I turn detective to my own past and find nooks with any lingering warmth to crawl back into. The past shifts around me like a verdant forest full of enchantments, cradling me within my own roots. With rented faith, rented houses, and rented time at my disposal, I keep glancing around to disappear into the silvery doors of a childhood long gone by.