Sunday Schooled

I will never be called to the river.

I will never be washed clean.

Sorry, Preacher Man.  There is just no saving my soul.

Some sins simply defy absolution.  Some mistakes linger irreparably in their durable definitions.  And some regrets rage and fester, like an undiagnosed cancer storming unchecked through the soft tissues of an untimely surrender.

The wrongs I have committed far outweigh the rights; the karmic balance remains stubbornly shifted forever in favor against me.  And I have neither justification, nor diligence, against what is ultimately coming due.

There is no defending the indefensible position- therein lies only exhausting madness.  There is no justifying the indiscreet indiscretions- therein lies only more lies.  There is no forgiving the unforgivable- therein lies the undeniable tragedy of my simple fragility.

Because I am so very broken.

Too many mistakes have shattered the illusions of purity.  Too many sleepless nights have sustained the ravenous demons of my raging insecurities and appetites.  Too many indecencies have needled their way incessantly into the peculiarities.

It leaves me unclean; I am left impure.

Just another rejected model of an unstable design so easily manipulated.  Just another momentary thrill undertaken to shock away the crushing boredom of having to be me.  Just another mistake spilling out onto a world’s stage so full of preconceived judgements and expectations.



Always hiding behind clever words.  Or a green bottle of questionable Irish descent.  Or a hasty toke- and yes, Mom.  I occasionally indulge in the marijuanas.  I’m almost 50 and it feels like the world is ending.  So why the fuck not?  

Just add it to the list of mistakes.

And, I know there have been many.

My intentions were always good- to shelter and to love, to create art, to help embrace the sheer ridiculousness of temporary humanity.  My passions were always unfiltered because if you aren’t sucking every morsel out of a moment’s touch, why even bother?  My heart was always on my sleeve, exposed and ready to be plucked, though all it ever seemed to attract was dirty fingers with malicious intent.

And that led to disaster.  And infection.

Just ask the trail of broken hearts left behind me.  Each one tainted and smeared with the toxic memories of me.   Each one tattooed with my own devil’s mark, always well-intentioned, yet still so sinful in its durability- I have the late-night texts to prove the point. 

They remember me and sometimes even miss me.  But they never wanted to be with me- at least not forever, anyway.  Not that I blame them – I can barely tolerate being me.  So, I understand that hesitation.

  I could only choose different things to love.  A country that doesn’t welcome, or really appreciate, the sacrifices.  Words, unfiltered and unedited, that come at you hard and stick in your brain.  A city that ultimately lied to me and teased me into a sense of unwarranted security, only to prove to be just another disappointment.

And there is no coming back from that.

There is no absolution powerful enough to pierce the armor of my naked debauchery.  There is no baptismal beyond that which can be found inside the next bottle.  There is no salvation offered other than what can be found in my inevitable collapse. 

The prayers, like my screams, go unanswered.  The sins, despite my best intentions, expound exponentially.  The darkness of forever grows significantly.

All the while, the clock is ticking…

About Typewriter Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

View all posts by Typewriter Fox →