Saturday, December 1, 2007

~Convent by kfad~



My convent. My place of peace, reflection, harmony, commune with God. Maybe I never had the calling. Maybe mother was right and I was running away. Always just running away.

I don't think I can be happy here anymore. Doing Gods work is tiring, and unrewarding. They all just want more. More food, better shelter, more drugs. There is no contentment with them. I had thought that I was spreading my joy of the lord with them. Turns out they just want the joy of the flesh. And they are willing to use the lord to find it.

More and more my convent feels like my prison.

4 comments:

kfad said...

My convent. My place of peace, reflection, harmony, commune with God. Maybe I never had the calling. Maybe mother was right and I was running away. Always just running away.

I don't think I can be happy here anymore. Doing Gods work is tiring, and unrewarding. They all just want more. More food, better shelter, more drugs. There is no contenment with them. I had thought that I was spreading my joy of the lord with them. Turns out they just want the joy of the flesh. And they are willing to use the lord to find it.

More and more my convent feels like my prison.

Dragon said...

"Outside"

I don't like it there.

Bad things happened to me outside.

Since I've come in here, I am safe. Nothing can hurt me anymore.

I like it inside.

I hardly ever miss the sun.

Cynthia said...

I may be trapped in here but at least I'm not your prisoner.

I have chosen to be behind this wall. This wall will protect me from you. This wall will protect me from me. This wall will protect me.

You can't get me any more. Move on.

Comrade Kevin said...

I'm not sure what made me take this job. Certainly I needed the money and I admit freely that the job description, glowing red from the ubiquitous advertising telescreens seemed tempting.

This latest venture in simulated realism museums attempts to give a passable reproduction of what life must have been like for the inhabitant of the 14th century. Tourists pay $80 a ticket to gawk at us as we live lives long since passed away into antiquity. My assigned role is that of nun is its written into my job description to look pensive and pious, for eight hours a shift, peering out into square of the facsimile of small Flemish village, circa 1317.

In between feigning wistful and contemplative, I spin coarse fabric on the vintage reproduction loom and make butter on the vintage reproduction churn. It's forbidden to interact with visitors. Veracity is a premium the powers that be are banking on heavily. No matter whether they're respectful or offensive, there's no talking to paid visitors. Lest anyone miss the point we are reminded of said fact in innumerable e-mail correspondences, all of which are clearly labeled "high priority".