It was not my hobby to visit churches in the middle of the night, well actually it is not my hobby to visit the church at all, but for once just this once, I did. I walked through the wooden main door, listened to the echoes of each foot step I made as I head straight into the altar, gazed on the statues of Mother Mary, St. Joseph, Sto. Nino, and of course the large cross, where Jesus Christ statue was nailed in.
Then the visions of the past suddenly burst into my mind, of course, here goes the flashback:
A little girl carried by her father entering the huge wooden door, while the crowd was gathering inside and looking at the same direction. The girl was curious what was all the commotion about. Why are they here? What are they staring at?
The little girl looked at the direction they are staring at and saw the big cross with a statue of a man whose bleeding hands and feet were nailed on the cross, wearing only a crown of thorns on his bleeding head and a piece of cloth in his waist because stripped of his clothing and his body bleeding also from wounds and a puncture on his side.
As disturbing as the sight of the statue of a tortured man was the most interesting feature of him was his eyes. The little girl knew that statues are not living things, they can not show any real emotions; however, his eyes, even if he was bleeding or feeling every pain done to him, the eyes held no emotion but selfless care.
The little girl began to cry, even if her daddy told her to stop crying because she was upsetting the crowd, the little girl continued crying until she was carried out of the place. The little girl was crying because she understood what the tortured man was saying.
He was there because he was paying for something that was not his fault and he was fine with it, because he deeply cares for the one who made a mistake. The little girl was sad that the tortured man had to give himself up for the one he cared, and she understood that the one he cared about didn't even acknowledge his sacrifice, and even so still his eyes, told her that the tortured man pitied the person he cared.
The little girl tried to explain her daddy with her little vocabulary about what she had just seen and known, then her dad hugged her and told her that the story of the tortured man has not ended yet and she has to listen to the mass for the story to continue.
Yeah, that little girl was so very naive and innocent that she cared about the tortured man's suffering more than anything. She was eager to hear more of the stories and found out that the book, where all of His stories were written. She began to read the book on a daily basis, marking the page she left of with the strings attached to the book. She also began to learn about the different rituals and occasions that her religion must patronize every time. She was young, full of energy, full of life, full of everything that was light, that she believed with all her heart.
That little girl thought that that was the happily ever after of the story, of her life, and of everything she knew, and in that thought, she was wrong. It was only a minute glimpse, a scratch tip of the iceberg, of what was about to begin. What a beautiful lure it was laid for the little girl's heart, she was star-eyed in love with the concept of light, the self sacrifice for others, and her devotion, reaches sainthood.
What happened to the little girl you ask? Tragic. Deceit. Maturity. Her senses were finally opened and she left her little saint-angel fantasy, behind; because she only ended up with a broken heart, an unfulfilled dream, and being forsaken by others as an outcast, turned invisible by the society.
She learned never to help others, because they always crave for more, people are insatiable pigs. She learned to independent, because people neither love or care about others, just themselves. She learned not to waste time loving or caring for others, because they only force you away. She learned never to expect anything good in life, because nothing good ever does happen and if it does there is always a catch. The only real feelings that she saw was on the lifeless statue's eyes and that was supposed to be a faint imitation, while the feelings that are shown in each and every people she sees are empty and fake.
The little girl's grew up to be me the cynical, pessimistic and nihilistic one, standing in front of the altar, staring at the past, and despising my old self for making the worst mistake I've ever done. Well it was all gone the little girl's heart was no more, it was shot, maimed, stabbed and hammered to pieces, which left room for the gaping dark hole that's currently occupying it now.
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As the title of the blog is called inspired by nothingness.... I just wanted to write... some people told me that they wanted to see what I write and I told them that when sparks fly into my brain (meaning I'm spontaneously inspired) yes I write stuff. So there it is... I hauled myself from laziness and procrastination, then force myself to type my thoughts... (before I get labeled as a bad person/influence) I just wrote this stuff... it doesn't have to mean that I represent any feeling or anything... it just the spur of the moment... and no I'm not contradicting or defending myself i just don't want any little mind to get swayed by what I wrote because half of these things are true... this is fictional and anything related to these things are purely coincidental... blah blah blah.... ok I'm tired and lazy again...
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