A Brief Consecutive by Kirby Wisdom

A man once told me that to live is to love; I have yet to discover the reality behind such a statement. But from what I have gathered, this world, for the most part, is selfish and quick to forsake. Countless mood changes have brought me to the old dusty church that lies present in front of me. Dusty from the sands of the Arizona desert and dusty from years of neglect. Every breath I took was a mixture of sunburned dirt and stale loneliness; which oddly enough put me at ease. Forgetting what had brought me here and forgetting where I was headed, I stepped hesitantly towards the door. Grabbing the rusted handles of the enormous chapel doors, I took an unintentional look behind me to find my eyes had come to rest on a seemingly abandoned fleur de lis, white with solitude. Heaven had become a broken down cathedral in the outskirts of some no name southwest town. I knew that I could take refuge in this place for as long as I would like, or at least until I had had enough time to collect my thoughts before I moved along on my endless journey. Just enough time to catch my breath and make a decision as to what direction I would head when I walked out the door again. Kindness and warmth usually filled the churches back where I come from but the only thing I could feel in this place was the stagnant breath of misuse and timeless ritual. Less than a dozen patrons were strewn amongst the tired and ancient pews. Many of whom looked as if they had died and left their lifeless bodies behind in a devout posture. Now when I entered slowly and quietly through the back door, the priest had begun to recite some holy Latin adage and all the patrons followed in refrain, almost as a congregation of mimes. On top of the broken down pulpit, the friar continued to speak indirectly to the small crowd like a hapless pawn of the Lord. Proceeding stealthily down the center aisle, I choose an empty row somewhat at the rear of the chapel and took my seat. Quietly I began to survey the inside of the rustic building. Restless, I slid down the row to the outside of the pew, where I sat serenely under the comfort of the only delightful looking chandelier in the church. Soon I had realized that at the base of the altar, a makeshift casket had been elevated on top of a pile of apparently native white tulips. To my astonishment, I had quickly become conscious that all of the lifeless patrons were dawned in black from head to toe. Uniformly, they stood and processed down the center aisle, gathering around the iconic casket. Vast amounts of emotions hit me at that moment, and I tried to stand but my body was locked into my seat with a heaviness that not even a hurst tool could pry me from. When everyone had left the church, it seemed a weight had been lifted from me, and I rose with stillness in my heart. X’s marked the path through the doorway, which is something I hadn’t noticed when I entered since my head was lowered when I took my exit. Years, it seemed, had accompanied my reverie once I had retreated that place of timeless tranquility. Zealous and mildly rejuvenated, I headed in the direction my feet seemed to pull me, knowing that wherever I go in life I will end up in the same place as everyone else but my path will be unique.