The church is so cold the air I breathe inside it turns into a milky white mist in front of me, and among the bulletins, posters and charity brochures. There are all kinds of stones - gravestones, gravel, and amber and black path stones - wet from the nearby river, and leading up to the large, grey wooden doors like angel blood jewels. Inside the timeless cathedral of alabaster and brown, it smells of home, of a living room containing dusty cushions and cobwebbed chairs - not to mention the priceless benches and pews. No one has visited or cleaned the holy sanctuary for a long time. But it gives off a feeling of a fire being set, to kneel and pray by, as if God were welcoming me with His heart - by touching my heart, and not my eyes. A bell sounds in the distance, it has been going in cycles, banging not ringing, announcing beauty and melancholy throughout the centuries. The sun is out, and the church creates its own inner light; its own love. Beige and gold have never looked so magnificent together. Old stone scriptures. New children's drawings on paper. A neverending high ceiling, filling high and low with wonderful space. The rest is silence. Pure, calm, respected silence. Were I to come visit this place at night, there would be candles to light the darkness and honour God, the angels, the saints. Eagles, doves and ravens watch over me...
Churches - the most peaceful, private public places on earth.
It gets warmer the closer you are to the alter; the closer to God. Now I carry God's heart like a hearth inside me wherever I go.
I don't remember any details concerning my dream, but I do have a lingering sense of fear and foreboding, and I feel like crying. Maybe I don't want to remember my dream. Why are so many people so cruel, so ungrateful, and completely lacking in empathy? Why so much vitriol?
I wonder if I should write in the rain, to see if a change comes over me. Better yet, I should write outside and let the rain drops fall on my pages, soaking them through, and see if some magical kind of emotion will be expressed from within and without. Clear, beautiful pearl drops, like tears on my work. They'll still be lovely though, in the rain.
Do I unconsciously block out smells in forests? I hardly mention them in my writing.
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