I haven’t written anything in a while. It is much easier to dream of writing short stories of comets and libraries, or hiccups and 24 hour supermarkets. I wake up to a full life, but lie half asleep in nightmares of the minutest failures. I am not a teacher. Why am I doing this? Why am I here?

So I went on a walk the other day, with Confessions under my arm and the hope of reading it on a quiet pew. But it rained and the doors were shut. A large sign read, “This is a place of God. If you need to talk here, talk to Him”. I have much to say about nothing at all. But do you hear me? These days have a habit of breaking my will. In soundless prayers my words do not carry. Outside the church I wrapped the book in my jacket, my confessions in folded hands.

What am I, if apart from you? What form can I take but this? If I don’t belong, why have you put me here?

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