Farewell Friends, by P.L. Cobb. EMP is coming to a close.

Farewell Friends!

Farewell?

Yes, it is with great sadness that I write this: EMP is coming to a close.

It’s been a scream, and you’ve all been like a sweet dream to us here, but it is time for us to move on. Earlier this year I started down a new path, one which has been leading me further away from the monster.

I will still be on WordPress, however. In fact, I started a new blog earlier in January. This one actually has regular posts (on Wednesday and Saturday), and is a bit more true to what I want to write about.

I love horror, but I also love quirky stories, word-salads, art, etc. I like sparkly shiny things along with the gory and grimy things. Variety is the spice of my life, and I’ve become addicted to that spice, even though it won’t aid me in navigating the cosmos (read Dune, now)!

When I started EMP I had no idea that I would lose all sense of what we were doing. Things got crazy, things got weird. In the end EMP was still a project, but also an excellent learning experience.

And I learned A LOT! Everyone, who was a part of the project did, I think. If it weren’t for EMP I would have never known that you’d love my rage poems, but in 2015 I did it! That was the best year for this blog! I also had a fantastic job, and all the creative energy anyone could ask for in 2015!

But all good things come to an end.

And the monster went back into hiding.

All along, I was trying to capture that elusive beast. Damn. I always missed the mark after 2015. That’s how it seemed at the time.

Maybe I couldn’t find my monster because it had evolved with me. Again: damn. How could I have been so blind? I may not know what makes a monster, because in truth anything can be a monster. When everything is monstrous, suddenly the idea behind a monster loses its mystique.

I would go on, but I think you get the idea. The monster dances to a new tune these days.

Thank you for sticking with us for the past three years.

Keep it monstrous!

Anger-It Might be Cliché, written by P.L. Cobb for the Enigmatic Monster Project, an original horror blog.

Anger–It Might Be Cliché

It might be cliché, but hey: anger is a part of our life now.

It’s bad, but can be good, somehow. Good in the way controlled fires are. Left alone, and who knows what chaos it shall mete out. Destruction by the metric tonne.

Also, when driven by anger, you are master of none. No one. Zilch, And there’s no way to change that.

When anger owns your ass, you’re better off as food for the worms, or the grass.

But it all depends, and in the end isn’t that all we can hope for?

If I could pay my bills in rage, perhaps I’d be less than poor. But loathing takes its toll, and always asks for more. So much so that every inch of me feels sore. It’s as if anger has had me whipped, saying: “This is it, bitch!”

Bleed me till I’m dry, let me spend myself until I’m empty. Strip away all my layers, questioning why I pretend to be so complex, so human, when I am really Anger’s whore.

In the end, isn’t that what we all are? Whores?

And then the Spider Came Along, by P.L. Cobb. A supernatural horror short about a widower who comes face to face with his wife's killer.

And then the Spider Came Along

It was a long, dark night. The kind of long and dark where one is lonely. Loneliness was known to cause insanity … But it was also a beacon for other strange things.

He, recently widowed, sat hunched over his desk, carefully carving a squiggle into the wood with a knife. A soft whisper tickled the back of his neck; it was very slight, but still it prickled his skin. Immediately he turned around to find the source. The last thing he wanted to see greeted his wide-eyed stare.

A spectre. No–a ghoul, a mocking visage of his wife was in the room with him. It hurt him to see her decomposed body. It enraged him. Once dark skin was now maggot-white; her hair hung limp around her head like a veil. A death veil.

The ghoul was not truly looking at him, but its pale eyes were pointed in his direction.

In life those eyes had been hazel-green, he reminded himself.

The spectre, the ghoul–whatever it was–raised a hand to point at something behind him. There were, he noticed, puncture wounds running all the way up to the thing’s elbows.

Puncture wounds. His dead wife. Carefully he turned around. Above his head was the creature known as the Spider. It clung to the place where wall met ceiling, hidden in the shadows.

Slowly he stood up, and backed away from the desk. Within a clenched fist the knife felt reassuring. He had always known that the Spider would return, had counted upon it, but never suspected the time to be so soon. I buried her last week! Pure loathing, mixed with fear, set his pulse racing. They seldom have any decency.

There were things which lived beyond the scope of human understanding; the Spider was one amongst many. These beings flitted in and out of time and space. Sometimes they walked between worlds. None of what they did made any sense, save for one: they all had to feed. Hunger, even for a god-like creature, was an instinctual need. Emotions, particularly from organic life, intoxicated them; greed drove them to seek out the choicest individuals, and people died.

His wife was just one amongst many, and the Spider would not stop with just her. A vision flashed before the man’s eyes: of people running, panting, through gloom-laden woods. It had come for both of them on a camping trip. Who would have suspected that a long weekend could go to hell so quick?

It didn’t move from its perch, but it watched him with all eight of its eyes. And he watched it as it began to click its fangs.

He held up the knife, hoping against hope that his plan would not go to hell as his life had. With an unsteady hand he began to carve a sigil onto his free hand. Spider, spider on the wall. Spider, spider in the hall. When you hear the raven’s call, back to your hole you shall crawl. 

The rhyme was stupid, but it steadied his nerves. If an alien god was going to kill him, then he would invite another to kill it. When he finished carving the mark, he managed a weak smile. “I hope you don’t mind me inviting a friend!”

The Spider, the Golden Spider, held no love for the Red Raven, and vice versa. He did not want another juggernaut in his home … But what choice do I have?

The Red Raven was punctual; it answered his call immediately. Another spot of darkness filled the small office. Suddenly, the air became thin. Space became scarce as the two gods sized each other up. Before they clashed, the man ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Recalcitrant, They Call Me; a poem written by P.L. Cobb for the Enigmatic Monster Project.

Recalcitrant, They Call Me

Adjective |rəˈkalsətrənt|

  1. having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority or discipline.

And this is how my story begins,
Not with a bang, no glamorous symphony orchestra
But a sad whisper, a murmur upon the wind:
The shocking tale of a deadly sin,
Wrath is his name–and the love which my mother, and him, must have made
To warrant me such an illustrious name …

Yes, they call me Recalcitrant.

My mother, she must have been the demon of Pride,
For my reputation has superseded me, far and wide!
And I cannot help but gloat.
For it must have been Wrath and Pride, combined
To have created the likes of me.

I could wax on, but that is all, there is no more to see!
And as you go, remember me …
Wherever there is life, I am eternal;
I am recalcitrance: a thing infernal.

Recalcitrant, they call me!

Can I? Written by P.L. Cobb

Can I?

Can I,
Chew my way out of this cocoon,
This thing in which I’ve been marooned,
Or can I,
Join the birds–might I fly
Into the lonely void of the sky?

Or must I remain
Trapped, to grow insane,
Or may I walk free
Beneath the churning seas?

Is it solace I seek,
Or is it vengeance to be eked
Out from this miserable soil?
My cup is so full, it overflows, and boils.

I am wild rage, encased,
The result of a fair lady disgraced.
If I must, I shall wait within this cocoon,
For it would not do to taste the sweet honey of your judgement … Too soon.

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Why Is This Still A Thing?

One day aliens will finally visit us on this dismal little ball of rock. I say dismal because as the top species we have simply made it this way. The aliens won’t even bother with our leaders. They’ll just ask for the smartest people on the planet: scientists, engineers, mathematicians, artists, humanists, etcetera. If those people are still permitted to exist by the time the aliens do come …

These aliens will then point to news stories about discrimination against the gays, transgendered people, poor and sick people, veterans, women, children … They’ll point to all the stories about how racism is still prevalent, and then the stories about why white supremacy is still here (and reluctant to leave us in peace). And if you think that they’re going to gloss over the atrocities done in the name of religion, politics, war, then you’re out of your mind!

Then these aliens will ask us: “Why is this still a thing? What are alternative facts?” When our jumbled answers don’t satisfy them, they’ll ask another question.

“What is wrong you people?”

And the answer to that is simple: many of us are dumb, wicked, selfish. Also known as the asshole.

Mostly unsatisfied, the aliens will thank us for our time. “This is why we never visit you. Oh, and we’re taking your Netflix away. Byeeee!”

If Netflix is still allowed to exist by then. Humans like to ruin the good things they do have. What is our problem?

(Oh, that’s right!)

The Enigmatic Monster presents …

The Brute Spews Hateful Words

The Brute spews hateful words

–Which are only considered hateful to us.

To him these insults are like

Shimmering red jewels,

Blood red–his words mean death to me, to you, oh insanity …

For this Brute, this beast …

… This ten eyed troll …

Revels in cruelty

Of the animal kind,

And by that I mean humanity.

How would you like to be a purse?

He’ll reason, nodding to his cronies.

Oh irony of ironies!

Aren’t you the little victim?

The Brute will laugh, he just can’t help it,

And to be fair, as prey, we are his favourites.

You had it coming! And maybe a lampshade, a wallet,

Human leather shoes! They’ll fetch a fine price!

And with a hideous smile, says the words, Skin ‘em!

And now we’re dead.

It’s not so nice to be on the losing side,

But maybe the Brute’s right?

Maybe we DO deserve this.

The Enigmatic Monster Project presents.

The Worm King

The worm king

Grovels at me feet, licking my toes

And I cannot look

It makes me sick

The king of worms is quick

To crawl up my legs

And then I am paralyzed.

My temple is compromised

To those who are wise

Why have you forsaken me

Am I simply rubbish

Now that my treasure has been stolen?

Your excuse: I did not guard myself.

Damn you.

Friday Lovin', by P. L. Cobb

I’m Mad, Livid, Angry

I’m mad, livid, angry,
I’m just a rusted bucket filled to the brim with roiling ire,
And I hate, I loathe–
I loathe so much that there is a heat from a flame from hell
The fire of all things eternal, and wasted.

My time, you know,
It’s my time that they always clamour for
Even the unwanted ones who won’t leave me be
They come for me like rabid dogs,
Itching to get their fix of wasted dreams,
And it’s mine that they want to waste, not theirs!

And if I fight back I am a witch–
Or worse, an ungrateful %$#@&!
Who wants to listen to the noises which I spend so much time
So much time squeezing from my esophagus
As if I were giving birth to nothing but sound,
Yet the sound is also wasted on them,
More efforts wasted.

And I am mad, I am livid, I am seething,
My cup is empty yet it overfloweth with bubbling, frothing acid,
That acid is bile, or something worse,
Something deep within my stomach–
Methinks a snake, or something better,
And by better I mean bad for you and good for me,
Because for once some foreign god has heard my cry …

And it has deigned to deliver me,
From the vampires, the wraiths, the zombies, the corporations
Whatever I choose to call them, they are the ones whose
Greatest desire is to control me,
Consume me,
Bury me,
And then exhume me.

As if to say: Look, though covered in your blood, we are your saviours!

Ask me again why I am mad.

Mysterious Silver Door, by P.L. Cobb

Mysterious Silver Door

Originally posted on plcobb.com


How I love you, more and more

My yearning, my curiosity

Both work side-by-side

Striving for my (inevitable) demise

Because the day I open you, oh silver door

Is the day I come face-to-face with a hideous surprise

Posturing Prick, by P.L. Cobb

Posturing Prick

There are gals and guys

Who we just can’t stand–god!

They like to cock-off, that’s no lie

Pretending to be more than the truth of what they are.

That’s no surprise though, no, we know you know,

Why–it must be exquisite fun to walk around–I don’t know, maybe–sit around

All day–hissing like cats, gnashing rat-like incisors … What?

(Or this and that)

Mincing words, inelegantly, riling you and riling me,

And there’s no way out!

Stay put, hunker down, cover your ears

Unless you’d like to drown in bullshit:

The choice weapon of the hypocrite.

We’re alone, left to fend for our own

In the cold of the wilderness, against our society’s finest…

The posturing prick,

The rotten scumbag.

And perhaps the prick is just a bag of scum,

Dressed up in a tie, with two button eyes…

(Yum!)

 

tradtional, art, poetry, horror

Dirty Boy

There’s another term for that arrogant son, another name. It’s not chum, or scum. Just Dirty Boy.

Yes, those are words that describe the sum of the parts of our arrogant ass. Dirty Boy likes to be picky, petulant, petty. If he could he would his waste time–and yours–with confusing–and perhaps–accusing rants. This and that he’ll shout about. A fleck of spittle will hit you in the corner of the eye. You might flinch, I mean, having someone’s spit in your eye is disgusting.

That’s just how Dirty Boy operates. What he has for a brain is more like a sponge, porous and moist … It teems with life. Yes that’s the twist, our arrogant son is not his own man; the boy is just human suit, a host. Once he was normal, maybe even wholesome.

Parasites can’t distinguish between good or bad; morals make them laugh, where the laughs can be had.

These creatures, these mites, work together, the sum of the whole. A macrocosm, Dirty Boy, mites, and all that bites. Perhaps there’s more. Dirty Boy, to weak to resist it … He’s a host to more than one party. Spooks and kooks, with their demoniac grins and their esoteric kinks, wink beneath his flesh, dancing upon useless corneas like hopelessly wild things.

Why, though?

Because why the hell not, that’s why. If Dirty Boy’s going to fall, he’s going to do it his way. He’ll make it a crash and burn to remember, if there ever was one. The mind’s been gone for a long time now. When the body goes, when he truly is dirt …

We will rest in what we think is peace. If it’s good enough.

Until the next weak-willed fool comes along, makes a pact with absolute evil, or whatever. Who really cares?

This Is What Little Girls Learn

This Is What Little Girls Learn

Little girls learn fast from their fathers, their mothers, how to bottle up feelings until they chew their way out, making tiny holes, burrowing through delicate skin–like worms, like moles.

Little girls turn into ragged little dolls, eaten from the inside out. They learn to wield bitter feelings like knives, and cold anger like steel hammers, but without knowing how to release them.

Petty fathers teach little girls nothing good, nothing new, not what a good father should. Harsh mothers don’t teach them anything at all, just sit on kitchen chairs, a cloud of resentment, a cloud of despair.

And what should they care about it?

Little girls grow up fast, not knowing how they came to be, how they got from point A to B. They hollow out like metal tubes, a natural progression, pent-up aggression. Hollow tubes–though full of wind–are still empty. Riddled with holes, they corrode. Unable to stand, they collapse.

And little girls turn into women, maybe nothing, and what should we care about it?

We can always make more.

 

Ire: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb

Ire: A Definition

Noun |ˈī(ə)r|

  1. an intense display of anger, openly displayed.

View our source.

Don’t shy away,
step into the smouldering light,
feel the torrid heat from eyes all ablaze.
One million eyes fixing you with an ireful gaze …

You’re naught but a dream,
a cruel nightmare, a colourless haze,
of Azathoth’s imagination, or so it would seem.
Daemon pipers play a hideous tune, the type which stays
embedded within fragile mortal memory, like an echoing scream.

Like seething fools they dance
around their atrocious lord and master
to stay his wrath, prolong their lives, and to entrance
Azathoth, the daemon sultan, recalcitrant and wrathful, an imminent disaster.

Eibzorm, God of Scorn, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Eibzorn,God of Scorn

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
And haunter of quarry past.
He seeks out those that mourn
To break them from their fast
–To harass.

Eibzorn wears them down
Reveals a hidden rage;
It adorns his head like a crown.
He appears at once sage.

But only time will reveal the truth
That he pursues, with zeal, truculent emotion,
With a ruthless devotion
–Forsooth.

That which he wears upon his neck,
Like teeth upon string: sour feelings,
Acrid sensibilities, dour sentimentalities, alack!
Such is Eibzorn and his dealings.

The god of scorn is no fool
Yet his victims pay the price,
Each one a tool–
A well sucked dry by trenchant avarice.

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
Ingratiates, manipulates, and denigrates
Strangers, challengers, and enemies sworn
To satisfy a lust incarnate.

Truculence: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Truculence: A Definition

Noun |tru-cu-lence|

  1. The quality or state of being truculent.

Truculent
Adjective |tru-cu-lent|

  1. Feeling or displaying ferocity: cruel, savage.
  2. Deadly, destructive.
  3. Scathingly harsh: vitriolic.
  4. A thing that shares a bed with Wrath, amongst other things.

View our source.

Wrath: A Definition, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Wrath: A Definition

Noun |raTH, or rawth|

  1. Strong, stern, or fierce anger.
  2. Vengeance or punishment as the consequence of anger.
  3. A thing so caustic, so toxic, that it can destroy a person’s sense of self-worth.
  4. The slumbering beast within each of us.

View our source.

Lust: A Retrospective

Like all things, words and their attributed meanings are more intricate on closer inspection. What a single word actually means and what someone may think that word means could likely fill up an etymologist’s afternoon … If this article were about etymology I doubt I would have finished it on time!

For now I’ll stick to the concept of these past two months: lust. Between Rhonda, Mitchell, and I lust was depicted as an outright destructive force–the doom of mortals–that grew to have its own personality through insatiable sirens, murderous men, inanimate objects …  And other malevolent things.

Our jobs were not to tell you what lust meant but more to convey what we thought it could mean, what it could be. After all, this project is an exploration, a meditation, on horror. So why shouldn’t we take the same approach to our latest project?

From draft to concept, each story forced us to think (I’m sure Rhonda and Mitchell will agree with me) of new ways to incorporate the theme without it being too cliché. I’ll admit that this was a struggle at times and even though our theme was abounding with possibility, we still fell into the same traps. Was that a bad thing, though? No, I don’t think it was; a large part of exploration means trodding into well-known territory before expanding into the unknown. Hopefully we didn’t get too lost.

One of the larger struggles was sticking to a schedule, which is mostly on me. As the project administrator it’s my job to make sure everything is as good as it could be. It’s a work in progress, I will admit. Things have changed for the better now.

Before we venture on into new territories, dear reader, we want to know:
How did we do?

And before we soak ourselves in our own wrath:
What should we do?

P.S: Before we begin with the next theme I would just like to say: Embrace your anger!

Afternoon, by P. L. Cobb

Anxiety Evolves Into Something Else

This is part of an ongoing series exclusive to my Patreon: A Huntress of Beasts.
The entire series will be available to patrons only.
You are currently reading draft 3, any suggestions for edits are welcome!

She left her body, dazed, confused. At the other end of the room her body was slumped against the wall. A bright red gash stood in stark contrast with her lemon yellow shirt. From her left ear all the way down to her navel oozed a line of blood onto the bleached-white linoleum. Her face was blurred, as if it had never been.

It was odd how one could feel so free and yet so unfinished at the same time. The body had served as a varnish for her soul; from the corner of her eye she caught herself in a mirror. A shadow stared back at her.

Having the ability to feel things outside of her body was different. Right now she felt a level of anxiety that was so much more intimate with her than if she were alive. Now that everything was bared for the cosmos to gawk at, there was nothing to hide, and Anxiety–pure emotion personified–was given free reign over her. Slowly it began to break away from her corpse, a distinct hum radiating from the thing as it crawled to her, the spirit. A morbid fascination stole over her as she watched.

When It was close enough it began to grope her.

And then it began to dig inside of her.

The Anxiety moved with a such a violent fervour that she was forced to dart away. Running was a mistake. It was useless because there was no where to go, which served as encouragement for the rabid beast. Anxiety just came back again with renewed vigour.

Then it reached the the spot where the choicest of morsels hid–the place where every unsavoury aspect became her–in a crack upon her soul. She did not relish that, in fact it tasted sour, like acid. And she hated it. All she could do was flit back and forth, not unlike a caged bird.

Anxiety’s mouth grew wide, a hiss escaping its great maw, conveying deep-seated frustration. For the first time it had been forced to show something other than its namesake. The creature hunched in on itself, quivering with rage now. Rage coloured the creature, who had been no more than a grey shadow moments before, into a poisonous shade of blue. Blue became purple and purple became red. Then without warning the colour shift began anew, this time erratic.

As the changes slowed to a stop Anxiety’s hunch became severe, more akin to a folding-in on itself than a hunch. It was creating a cocoon. In the flickering lights of the kitchen she saw the cocoon shell glitter, obsidian-like. Beneath the shell she caught a flicker, the creature inside very much alive. She inched closer and spied the outline of a nymph.

For the first time since she had died she could breath. In its frenzy Anxiety had given her the chance to escape. There was no doubt in her mind that it still lusted for her, nor was there any doubt that it would violate her if given the chance.

For the second time since her death she looked into the mirror. Why did she have a mirror in the kitchen? She couldn’t recall. Deep within the glass was the shadow.

The shadow was her.

Without the glamour of flesh or bone she was grey, the same grey as a pigeon. In the kitchen light she even caught an iridescent shimmer.

Was being grey so bad? When she was raised she had been raised to believe in absolutes, blessed truths and abject lies, black and white . . . When she could think for herself she realized that it was all a lie. Life was not black and white. Sometimes it was the shimmering green of a hummingbird, the fiery orange of a tiger, the brazen sheen of an eagle’s eye . . . And sometimes it was a muted grey, like a pigeon.

No. There was nothing wrong with this.

She gave the obsidian cocoon a farewell glance. When she had said her goodbyes she kissed her body on each cheek, and found the open window above the sink. She flew into the night sky, free for the moment. She knew that as soon as Anxiety emerged it would be on the search for her. It was not a pleasant thought. Even more unpleasant was knowing that it would not be the same: Anxiety would evolve into something else.

Anxiety always did. After having its fill of angst it would crave something of more substance. Before it killed her that had been the air from her lungs, the hormones of fear, the tissues of her brain, and then her blood. Perhaps that was why she saw no face, because there wasn’t one to be seen. What had she kissed then? Her skull?

She shivered.

In all of this there was something which was not quite right. Throughout her life she had always experienced Anxiety as a feeling. Feelings didn’t kill, they didn’t lust after you. Whatever had attacked her–

–No. No! A new breed of thought–tasteless, ominous–reared an ugly head at her. None of it stuck, as if she were incapable of comprehension. Fear made her waiver in the sky until all control was lost to her and she dropped like a rock. The thought of closing her eyes did cross her mind, but when she saw the woman below her she couldn’t. A woman below her, looking up at her, and a black aura.

No, not just black. The aura radiated from the woman, much like sun rays, only with an obsidian glitter, eerily cocoon-like. Even with her lack of body she still felt the instinctive tightening of her chest. I can’t breath!

Lust: A Desire

Lust: a desire for success
in excess.

Early mornings
and late nights,
half-baked, strained
lizard brains.

Bright white,
flashing lights,
stale smells, bland hells,
and watered down caffeine≠
genius.

“Learn your lesson yet?”
A simple ask.

“Whatever.”
A typical response
from an egoist,
an ass.

“All right then!”
Flippant, unconcerned.
Our parliament adjourned.

Back to business:
unhindered mediocrity–
the territory of
draconian alacrity.

Failure comes along dully,
full-circled,
from lack of sleep and wistful dreams.

And a desire for success,
in excess,
ultimately.



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Go on, lover.

Go On, Lover

Go on, lover,
lift up my skirts
feast your eyes where the sun never shines.

Who is it going to hurt?

People like you, they complain
about the agenda of the gays.
“They’re nothing like you and I, beautiful!”
Or so you claim.

I disagree with such statements
false as they are.
In saying them, what do you gain?

They’re almost like me, darling.
They want to love, they want to live.
They want to eat, darling!

You became a part of my agenda
the moment you fell victim to my sultry gaze,
lover.

So go on, lift those skirts.
Let me show you what I live for.

Go on, lover!

I’m gonna eat you up,
maybe more.
Go on, lover, feed this whore.

Licking the Softness, by P.L. Cobb

Licking the Softness

Licking the softness,

tasting the sweetness–

that sugary goodness–

“Oh, sweet flesh of mine!”

(Devouring)

(Engorging)

Licking and sucking,

greedily lapping

warm bodies quivering–

“Oh, you spoil me, Richard!”

(Licking)

(Licking)

(Licking)

Sanguine streams flow lazily

across eyes rolling crazily–

(Biting)

(Sucking)

(Lapping)

“Oh, I could eat you up, Richard!”

Licking the softness . . .

 

March 18th, 2012 by P.L. Cobb, written for the Enigmatic Monster Project

March 18th, 2012

It’s Sunday, and I am at the same place I always end up on this day: church.

I don’t talk to God though; I don’t give him the attention they say he deserves. All around me people whisper, saying things under their breath like ‘Jesus, please forgive me’ or ‘Help me to forgive, so that I may be forgiven.’ Somehow I’m able to sit like a statue, unmoved by the subtle heartbreak that surrounds me. Everyone here just wants to be loved.

So, what is love? How do I understand all the ways in which a person can love? Or, how about all of the ways the congregation claims I am loved: selfless, sacrificial love–but not truly free–surprise!

So, how would I describe love? Maybe as a mystery of the deep, or deeper than deep, an enigma. All the why in the world could not contain it. All the how would never explain it. No man-made gods could ever give or withhold it, but we just can’t accept that. If we could we would all possess it by now.

The sermon goes by in silence, sometimes someone coughs. I nod my head, not out of agreement with anything that the pastor is saying, but because I am starting to fall asleep. When the pastor ends his speech the congregation bows their collective head in prayer. My head lowers out of respect, but my eyes and my heart are focused on the blue carpet. I wriggle my toes just to make sure I have not fallen asleep. The collective gets up to leave, me trailing along behind them.

Another Sunday has come and passed and I am still waiting for an answer. Are my questions so difficult that even the good god above cannot answer them, or is this LOVE truly that abstract?