Chapter 10 In the Desert
It is said that whenever a man was called by the almighty, he would be totally alone. And the extremest situation of such would be, one couldn't even feel the presence of God. Of course it is always a question: could one ever be in company of the one above? However there always come times in which one could only call onto God, no matter one knows what he's actually calling for. "Oh my god," don't we say that all the time? Well, hold your tongue, because when you really need to call, you might not be able to.
Because of her I realised what heartache is. It is not a metaphor, it is physical. Yet I believe it has no biological explanation. You just lie in bed, grabbing your chest, where nothing seems to be different. But you have to do it, to feel. to be a bit eased. Yet it doesn't work.
Ever since I know it's not a literary tactic saying heartache.
My friend kid said all the time that she is a prophet. She also said all the time that all called by God to be prophet are miserable. Being after by disbelieving mass, rocked and killed. "My kingdom be not this world." I don't say that's self-indulgence. But I hardly had that sense of vocation. But that day, after one night grabbing my chest, leaving a red mark on it, I needed fresh air. I needed going out. So I walked, from Zone Two towards Zone One in London. It a long walk, normally people take tube or bus. But physical labour was preferred at that moment. I couldn't think. I couldn't talk to people. So I walked. I recalled a line from a cheesy movie, adapted from Graham Green's novel, The End of the Affair, goes that "I walked into a desert without Morris." Well, hell with it.
From morning to the afternoon, I walked and walked. I got bored easily, normally. But that day I wasn't. Well, I was bored from the beginning, only I couldn't care less about it.
"A church," I thought. I needed a church, to sit down, to rest, to pray. Better a Catholic one. The Catholic Church is unbelievably stupid in their formal document, but the architecture and music was nice. Better with a small confessing room. I always wonder how does it feel talking to a priest, knowing that he might ask you to repant, and not squeel on you.
For three hours I walk trying to find a church. Maybe it is bacuase that Britain is the first country with a monarch turned his back on the Roman Catholic Church only because he wanted to have another wife, I found nothing. (Yet still they sing "God Save the Queen") The night falls. It was late November, the night fell, which was quite early, at around six or five.
"One church, in the name of love, one church." (I always liked Bono.)
To a point, I gave up.
"Fine, you can't even gave me one, I don't want it."
Right after I thought that, I got my church, right at the corner of the street, next to China Town.
Bloody humour. God learned the British way?
Because of her I realised what heartache is. It is not a metaphor, it is physical. Yet I believe it has no biological explanation. You just lie in bed, grabbing your chest, where nothing seems to be different. But you have to do it, to feel. to be a bit eased. Yet it doesn't work.
Ever since I know it's not a literary tactic saying heartache.
My friend kid said all the time that she is a prophet. She also said all the time that all called by God to be prophet are miserable. Being after by disbelieving mass, rocked and killed. "My kingdom be not this world." I don't say that's self-indulgence. But I hardly had that sense of vocation. But that day, after one night grabbing my chest, leaving a red mark on it, I needed fresh air. I needed going out. So I walked, from Zone Two towards Zone One in London. It a long walk, normally people take tube or bus. But physical labour was preferred at that moment. I couldn't think. I couldn't talk to people. So I walked. I recalled a line from a cheesy movie, adapted from Graham Green's novel, The End of the Affair, goes that "I walked into a desert without Morris." Well, hell with it.
From morning to the afternoon, I walked and walked. I got bored easily, normally. But that day I wasn't. Well, I was bored from the beginning, only I couldn't care less about it.
"A church," I thought. I needed a church, to sit down, to rest, to pray. Better a Catholic one. The Catholic Church is unbelievably stupid in their formal document, but the architecture and music was nice. Better with a small confessing room. I always wonder how does it feel talking to a priest, knowing that he might ask you to repant, and not squeel on you.
For three hours I walk trying to find a church. Maybe it is bacuase that Britain is the first country with a monarch turned his back on the Roman Catholic Church only because he wanted to have another wife, I found nothing. (Yet still they sing "God Save the Queen") The night falls. It was late November, the night fell, which was quite early, at around six or five.
"One church, in the name of love, one church." (I always liked Bono.)
To a point, I gave up.
"Fine, you can't even gave me one, I don't want it."
Right after I thought that, I got my church, right at the corner of the street, next to China Town.
Bloody humour. God learned the British way?
posted by kevin | 12:41
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home