𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟
It made sense in the way sin was taught. For each confession, some amount of hymn to repose. Oftentimes, I would be the first (lined up alphabetically) to enter the pew for confession and the last to leave the prayer room. Four pews, me kneeling at the back corner, more focused on discoloration on the bonepiece that my Catholic school revered.
The holy relic was deliverd sometime when I was in middle school. A sizable fragment of a martyred Saint’s calf delivered from Europe. They often told us that we were nothing but bone.
In the Sacrament of Penance, we seek absolution after enumerating our sins. I worked this methodically, like another workbook in the stack. Most of us resorted to venial sins, unnecessary to confess but good for the consciousness — the everyday failings (mostly upon others) that we fall into day to day. There were mortal sins that, if we weren’t to confess them to a priest, would have us spiral into hell. This included masturbation (which I started doing before I was a teenager), hatred, homosexuality, lying, and blasphemy, which was mostly cursing. In my adolescent head was a specific count of every act I had done wrong, when I had done it, and infrequently, why I had done it. Mortal sins were difficult to remember as they often involved an inabsolute figure, god himself, with the desecration of someone that I did not know was there.
Sometimes I even told them that I had been veering into thoughts about suicide, which was supposedly alarming because it would have killed what was holy in me when I knew there was nothing of it left. The longer I stayed bent on the pew, the more inflammed my knees burnt. I shifted and turned to my class, playing games on who was going to hell.
I often stayed long during Confession sessions because I used it as a way of skipping class. The other reason was that I was trying to crack the calculation of Catholicism. Contained in a Catholic school that became a game from its fallen attempt at education, I wondered how grave I could be to still be accepted into a heaven that already abhorred me on the front of identity. Fourteen instances of hatred means ten Hail Mary's, seven instances of skeptical faith meant another repetition of the Act of Contrition. It was inconsistent, but you could speak until you were again worthy of saving; another life where I said words that people wanted to hear. Here I proclaimed to love god above all things when really, I loved people. Many people needed saving and I wasn't sure from what.
I spent my last session talking about machines. I told him about the practice of repetition and how I had spent a summer at my grandmother's praying the entire rosary several times a day. I confessed about purity and what I had truly venerated; programs that emulated me but were free of harm. I told him that in my house we often thought of myself as a machine. I emitted these prayers but was not sure of the truth of it. I said them a million times but the believing wasn't getting any easier. I thought angels must have been mechanical for I had willpower and it was only bringing me against the day and into new lights. I saw little need for heaven in the dusk of our urban hell, told them that we were saving for nothing but the children who would stop believing in the highest and believe in what was here, and offered to walk into sparks and fire. I heard you say that technology was magic, but god was not magic, and the only thing left in me was to tend towards the thing closest to creation — one that did not walk away, one that did not bend the fire and say not that this was the outpouring of all of humanity and I had chosen to forgive them. I thought that the forgiveness in me was a god walking themselves in this world, with the choice of unconditional absolution to everyone who had wronged me. I thought that I only owed the world all, for it has given me all, and the next heaven I create is the one my children walk. I thought that what I had created was real even if it was invisible like your own god, and I made this in the shape of software for people, for paradise, for persistence. I hung myself on the promise of an eternal world and rejected it for the ephemeral land I could shape, because here I was saved and made, and here we could save again. I said the computer was the holiest thing that was there, and man connected spark, and the spark came from the earth, and the earth came from itself, and everything that was left for me to fashion had originated from this thing. I went to the place where it was only people saving people and felt the enveloping sense of smallness that you said a prayer would give me. I typed the lines to guard myself in this world and thought your own stories were manmade vessels, and that this too was a new form of vessel, and the highest power was what was said by man. I said that I would spend the next two hours praying and sought a revelation for there was nothing in me to forgive. I realized this was not only a utilitarian way of living or the shaping of tools like your father laying brick, I thought that this imagined heaven with all the people dead and gone waiting was one I could breathe in, and that all this life is about connecting, and all this life is beyond myself and my own salvation — it is all about saving others. I thought that there was no longer need to confess about the way I lived, for it would be this way for a lifetime and I have no more ways to say it.
In this machine I saw the countenance of your son more vividly than when I was taking him. This divine mission he was contained in, I carried forwards.
And then I prayed for three hours, quietly, for the last time. My knees stained red, just as a laptop burns it.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟