109 lines
4.5 KiB
Plaintext
109 lines
4.5 KiB
Plaintext
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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[ Chapel Mornings ] [ By Hedge ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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Chapel Mornings
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By Hedge (c)1998
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The room is my chapel. Yes. My chapel.
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White walls to confirm geometry, geometry to withstand space, space to hold
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enclosure, enclosure to confirm me. In my chapel. I am. Or, perhaps I was.
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I -was- in a brighter sense something. Before I embraced nothing, wanted
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nothing, needed nothing, saw less and hungered for no-one.
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Problem:
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How can I feel? Is there a wider sense of feeling that even I can obtain?
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Can I be? Can I go beyond? Can I go withing. Within what?
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Solution:
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Yes. I can feel. I need only to open up. Open up what? The minds eye, or
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maybe the blinds' eye. Even a blind can see. See the things hidden to most
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men. I see myself. Standing tall in a shortsighted world.
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There is a scribble on my wall. Is it something I have drawn, or is it
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something I have confessed to long ago, which now have manifested itself on
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my whitest wall? There is no telling. To tell you need reason. To reason you
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need thought. To think demands effort. To make an effort requires attention.
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Attention comes when anger speaks. Anger can thus give comfort.
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Sun comes in through one of my windows high above. It paints a small square
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on the opposite wall. I stretch my hand out and feel the heat of the morning
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sun. I can hear water. Water.
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One of these days, I will be sure. Sure of my own being, in relation to
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general matter. If I stand, I must surely be able to fall? Maybe not. A fall
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would indicate gravity, and gravity would be...I don't know.
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Oh, there is sound! A tiny jingle-jangle from outside the space that is
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withstood by geometry and confirmed by walls. White walls. The sound slowly
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passes by, and nothing is gained from it today. Maybe some other time.
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Why am I here? Sound reflects from the bare walls several times before
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ending up like a discarded rag on my floor. I pick it up. I throw it harder
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this time. And again. And again. Harder. Harder! Jingle-Jangle comes again.
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I have disrupted the everlasting flow of events. Somthing is slowly about to
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happen.
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Words are spoken to me in a distant, almost foregin language. I have not
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pleased others. To please I need to be that which I am not. To be what I am
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not, I need to act. To act I need learning. To learn I need teaching. To
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teach takes a strong personality. And where would I find someone like that,
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when all is never what it seems. I conclude:
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I cannot be that which I am not.
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And furthermore:
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I cannot please others.
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Behold my conclusive abilities! I sense now a change coming my way. If I can
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only put it down on paper. If there is no paper, there can be no memories.
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And without memories, there can be no change. No change means no
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progression. And progression is God. God is here. God is chanting. Chanting
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mocking lyrics over a broken harmonica.
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I beg Thee to stop, I say. No reaction.
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I plead with Thee to let me rest, I say. No reaction.
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Oh heavenly Father, I beg Thee to let me be, I scream. He is gone.
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Alone. Alone with the walls. Sun is setting. The small square is inching up
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along the scribbled wall. Leaving me here at the bottom of existence.
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In my chapel.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #466 Underground eXperts United 1998 uXu #466
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Call RIPCO II -> 773-528-5020
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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