Spiritual Trauma and Why I Can’t F***ing Write Anymore

I work midnights at a hotel in my hometown. Last night, as I was driving to work, I was listening to “With Everything (Tim Yagolnikov Remix)” and wishing I didn’t ever have to stop listening to it. The magnificent and terrible synth swells on the two-four counts made images and colors explode into the deepest recesses of my mind. The beat dropped on the word “Name,” then crashed in again, pressing a metaphysical hook against the skin of my chest, breaking the barrier between flesh and spirit, attaching itself to my pericardial membrane and dragging me forward into the void.

For an instant, the scales over my eyes fell off, and I remembered what it was like to be a prophet.

I could not sustain it. I used to be able to sustain it. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly I was thrust back into the dismal half-reality in which I’ve been living for three years.

I know the truth. I know it is naive to believe that everything I experience with my senses is not everything there is to experience, but the hybridity of my soul and body shuts down when it even comes close to experiencing what it used to.

I wanted to write down the colors and images that flashed across my mind while I was at work but I couldn’t because I couldn’t find the words to name what exactly it was I felt. I wrote some shitty, sickly lines that were laced with depression and I spat them out because they were lukewarm. I was disgusted with them and I threw them away.

I used to think I wasted a prophecy on an evil man with slicked back orange-brown hair, trimmed leg hair, and expensive suits, but I read the prophecy again and I realized it wasn’t even about him. It was about a church that would rise up and bring the community up with it.

Once, a woman prophesied that my words would set people free, people who had never been free before. She at the time did not know I am queer. Sometimes I think about little concepts like freedom and I am angry because they are meaningless and tiresome. Since when did talking about these things become tiresome?

What am I doing with my life?

In all honesty, the only moments when I even come close to experiencing the presence of Jesus anymore is if I’m out of my mind drunk and in front of an instrument. I don’t want this to be the case.

Ultimately, I would like to feel like I am home. I would like to enter into the doors of a church and feel the Spirit envelop me in love and tell me that it’s going to be okay, that I’m safe, that I will always be safe, and that they will never leave me.

I want to be able to write and feel the same things I felt before everything happened. I want to feel the hook sink itself deep inside my chest and pull me, but I don’t want it to let me go. I don’t want it to let me go back to the insufficient half-reality.

I want to experience the fullest of everything, and I want it right fucking now.


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