Rambling

I guess I've just been struggling with a lot of thoughts lately, so I wrote them down. I've missed the cafe. Sorry if it doesn't make sense.

 Churches are strange. Sitting in a hot room listening to a man spew words into our ears while trying to save our souls, but it doesn't feel like saving to me. It's more like pulling he's out my soul through the pores of my skin and stringing it out for the congregation. Maybe it's my guilty conscious but I feel persecuted. His words dig so far deep into my brain that I feel ashamed, unclean, and uneasy. My mind skips back to a cool December morning in the same church with the same empty words for a different occasion. Once again the pastor drones on, his molasses voice dripping into my ears, but his words aren't of the triumph of the Lord. His words are solemn. I can still perfectly envision this day, even though it's already been two years. The pastor mournfully speaking, the flowers lining the room, how there wasn't an open seat in whole damn church, it all seems so vivid. These images flood in with the intrusive thoughts that keep me up at night. I still feel my hands clutching on to the underside of the pew trying my hardest not to throw up or cry and attempting to immerse myself  in words I'm sure not even the pastor believed. But even then I felt like a liar. There was nothing that felt truly authentic that day. Not the grief I let slip through or even the paragraph I spoke about the life we lost, it felt plastic and forced. Just like the usual Sunday sermon.