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                         Underground eXperts United

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         [  Chapel Mornings  ]                         [  By Hedge  ]


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                                                Chapel Mornings

                                                By Hedge (c)1998


The room is my chapel. Yes. My chapel.

White walls to confirm geometry, geometry to withstand space, space to hold
enclosure, enclosure to confirm me. In my chapel. I am. Or, perhaps I was.
I -was- in a brighter sense something. Before I embraced nothing, wanted
nothing, needed nothing, saw less and hungered for no-one.

Problem:

How can I feel? Is there a wider sense of feeling that even I can obtain?
Can I be? Can I go beyond? Can I go withing. Within what?

Solution:

Yes. I can feel. I need only to open up. Open up what? The minds eye, or
maybe the blinds' eye. Even a blind can see. See the things hidden to most
men. I see myself. Standing tall in a shortsighted world.

There is a scribble on my wall. Is it something I have drawn, or is it
something I have confessed to long ago, which now have manifested itself on
my whitest wall? There is no telling. To tell you need reason. To reason you
need thought. To think demands effort. To make an effort requires attention.
Attention comes when anger speaks. Anger can thus give comfort.

Sun comes in through one of my windows high above. It paints a small square
on the opposite wall. I stretch my hand out and feel the heat of the morning
sun. I can hear water. Water.

One of these days, I will be sure. Sure of my own being, in relation to
general matter. If I stand, I must surely be able to fall? Maybe not. A fall
would indicate gravity, and gravity would be...I don't know.

Oh, there is sound! A tiny jingle-jangle from outside the space that is
withstood by geometry and confirmed by walls. White walls. The sound slowly
passes by, and nothing is gained from it today. Maybe some other time.

Why am I here? Sound reflects from the bare walls several times before
ending up like a discarded rag on my floor. I pick it up. I throw it harder
this time. And again. And again. Harder. Harder! Jingle-Jangle comes again.
I have disrupted the everlasting flow of events. Somthing is slowly about to
happen.

Words are spoken to me in a distant, almost foregin language. I have not
pleased others. To please I need to be that which I am not. To be what I am
not, I need to act. To act I need learning. To learn I need teaching. To
teach takes a strong personality. And where would I find someone like that,
when all is never what it seems. I conclude:

I cannot be that which I am not.

And furthermore:

I cannot please others.

Behold my conclusive abilities! I sense now a change coming my way. If I can
only put it down on paper. If there is no paper, there can be no memories.
And without memories, there can be no change. No change means no
progression. And progression is God. God is here. God is chanting. Chanting
mocking lyrics over a broken harmonica.

I beg Thee to stop, I say. No reaction.
I plead with Thee to let me rest, I say. No reaction.
Oh heavenly Father, I beg Thee to let me be, I scream. He is gone.

Alone. Alone with the walls. Sun is setting. The small square is inching up
along the scribbled wall. Leaving me here at the bottom of existence.

In my chapel.


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 uXu #466              Underground eXperts United 1998              uXu #466
                        Call RIPCO II -> 773-528-5020 
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