I’m not nervous, nor confident. If there’s one emotion that dominates my wholeness is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of rejection, although rejection might be the best forgiveness the mighty could give me. I’m afraid of this world. All my beliefs seem to vanish far from the horizon. It devastates me most that my only anchor to strength is now next to nothing I know – oblivion. By mostly, I’m afraid of myself.
I continue my journey to the lone room where a man close to the highest power awaits me. I know he’s there, waiting. Not to get to know me better but to shed some light and to assure me that God will always be waiting with his heart open for his lost sheep to come back. Come back from the darkest hole our generation has fallen into. Or at least that’s what I have always believed in.
I now stand frozen in front of the sad room, completely aware of its great ability. Trusting that it could shower my misdeeds away and whilst stepping out I would be completely untainted. I clasp my hand, took a deep and long breath, accepting my own defeat. I slowly make my way in.
Inside stands a dark kneeler against an old varnished lattice. Drinking in the somber aura of everything, I kneel and make the sign of the cross. At the other side of the wall is the priest I asked for a confession beforehand. His silhouette evident despite of the faint light passing in through this gloomy box’s weak hinges.
Bless me, father, for I have sinned.
Suddenly, I hear myself speak. An odd voice coming out of my throat as if some unfamiliar person whispered in my ear but never had been unfamiliar, not even once, in my conscience.