What is Here?

Vernal Song | Jack Tapia Walter | pencil

What is Here? By  Charlie Van De Moortel 

Candles burned brightly behind the entrance to the room; determined flames keeping souls alive. Though the sound was quiet, the clacking of a keyboard could be heard in the back left corner of the church: there he sat working on his novel, passing the time. 

His mother was in surgery, a minor one with little to no risk, yet it took hours and he had a deadline to make: someone's book hit the new york times best seller list and he was in charge of writing the interviewers script. Violently boring work. 

The church was the only place in the hospital where focus found him. 

The lighting was dull yet soft, wrapping around him like a warm blanket, offering comfort and companionship. Something almost human, Almost corporeal. 

Some time later the heavy church door creaked open interuppting the writer's great focus. Editing was the worst part of the job but when you were in the flow it was almost tolerable. 

The woman lit a match; the tsk heard throughout the room, flame born onto a candle, prayers for a weak one. 

Her footsteps were powerful walking to the front of the room. Her body made contact with one of many benches, doing its best to mold into the inhuman shape of wood. It was here that she started to pray, well tried to start. 

The writer had paused the clacking of his keyboard when she entered the room, but the repetitive noise started back up again, echoing in the holy hall, interrupting the way of the woman's prayer. And so her feet moved forward once more to the back of the room where the writer sat. Confrontitive tension in the air.  

“Excuse me, would you be so kind as to stop typing, it's quite insensitive to disrupt the peace while others are trying to focus.” 

“You’re disrupting my peace,” he replied. 

“...what?” 

“I was in here first, and there you come interrupting my writing. I didn’t disrupt anything.” “Well I would appreciate it if you could abstain from writing for ten minutes while I pray.” Despite the simple request, the writer gave the woman a nasty glance as if this was an atrocious ask. 

“I’m sorry sir, is there a problem?” she inquired. 

“What are you even praying to, a god that doesn’t exist?” 

“You don’t have to understand something to respect it.” 

“Oh I understand it just fine, that doesn’t mean I don't think it's stupid.” 

“You’re being mean.”

“I’m being honest.” 

“Well I don't care for that honesty.” 

“And I dont care for interruption.” 

With this, salty tears began to pool in the woman's eyes. 

“Why must you hate something so pure? What is wrong with others finding comfort in something you can’t believe in?” 

“Because it's not real. Nothing exists that is divine and holy.” 

There was something else in the room; They could both feel it, and the words that followed were not meant for the lady but meant for the God. 

His voice shook with anger as he spoke “I prayed! I prayed, begging with my hands clasped together; I believed that my desperation would make a difference. It didn’t. A god that the people believe in is a delusion. A sick and twisted comfort. It’s not real. It never has been.” - 

Maybe we are cruel because we have faced cruelty. 

Maybe we are cruel because we do not know what else to be. 

Maybe we are cruel because we are human, because cruelty is inescapable in a world full of anger. 

But maybe we are waiting for a savior. 

One with wings, white and fluffy. 

One with sense, understanding and kind. 

One with warmth, we are cold. 

God is not real because God exists in everything. 

And God is everything because God is not real. 

We are all gods: bitter, jealous, loved and loving. 

We create and are created in turn. 

- 

Just then, a doctor walked into the church; light shone through the colored window panes bathing him in red. 

“Excuse me ma’am, your husband left a note.” 

To my dearest Emily, may the angels let me watch over you in heaven. 

Keep me in your heart though I am an atmosphere away. 

When it rains I water the garden with you, the roses blooming in your honor. When it snows, I tuck you in at night; find comfort in the warmth of this world. 

Know that soon we will be together again, it is all in his plan. Do not fret Emily, Pass it forward. Forever yours, Arthur