High ceilings

It’s that room with high ceilings.
Foreign.
I float near the rafters and merely observe.
Some people find themselves in this room,
but I just keep floating higher and higher.
I slowly lose myself and gravity’s anchor.
I twitch nervously.
Switch my weight from one foot to the other.
Eat the bread, drink the wine,
click-clack my way through the line,
but I don’t confess my sins.
Why should I?
I can’t empathize,
can’t relate,
can’t imagine.
Can’t close my eyes in prayer
and think someone’s listening to my minuscule thoughts.
There’s something about those high ceilings.
Each thought wanders around in an endless
whirlpool of air instead of water.
I try to scrawl them down onto the service program
but find little white space.
They’re trapped inside while I glide around.
Merely observing,
never taking part.
You feel at peace here.
You’ve found yourself.
I seem to be lost.
It’s a game of make believe
and I’m too much of a realist.

-E.M.S.
12/25/13
1:05 a.m.

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