The Shackles of Yesteryears — Life Without God
In my room, I stumble upon my beat-up bible. It has sat there and done nothing but age for a while. Flicking through the pages I become bitter. After tasting the forbidden fruit, is this how Adam and Eve felt? Ashamed for seeking knowledge, and naked for questioning authority. Like the couple that was banished from the Garden of Eden, I too can no longer return.
It is far too late in the run to put blinders on escaped horses, for those beings have seen too much to be put back into slavery.
The warmth of the rain hits my cheeks in a sigh of relief. Noah’s rising seas will sink the souls of the sinners to the bottom of the ocean, with anchors made of only the finest steel.
Gone are the days of the land of plenty. The thought of Cockayne is dismal, now a distant fantasy. The taste of sweet honey and pungent wine lingers, memories that will never see the light of day. Gone are the days of my youth, when understanding was easy, and letting go was not a task reserved for the virtuous.
These pages in my dear Bible hold memories of when the sun felt brighter. I often reminisce on the image of the Sunday morning eucharist. If I close my eyes and soften my ears, I can still hear the hymns from the choir pouring over me. ‘’This is where I belong, and these are my people’’ is a consoling sentiment, to say the least.
I have never lost my fondness for the crucifix’s outline, but now it stands without religious connotations, resting as a reminder of who I once was.
Who would have known that inky words on silky pages would inspire some men to love and protect, and others to kill and torture? I can’t interpret these words any longer. The interpretation of words has led to the demise of more men and women than that of any sword.
Once the myths told by our ancestors are broken, we are left to our own devices. But wait, I do not seek the burden and weight of freedom. I yearn to see the shadows on the wall as my fellow prisoners, but I can’t. Now I anguish in regret outside the cave. A futile effort of repairing a house that no longer stands.
Now and then I lie in grief, not able to re-enter the paradise of the blind.
