The black-collared priest seems to seek his divinity in the gutter. White lines spider across a map, somehow meeting up with the fine lines showing themselves in his face.
A strong belief in duality, not just as a reality but as a plan of action.
He is the lamb run off on the hills, waiting for some shepherd to come and catch him, baying for attention yet stubbornly refusing to fall in line.
He has seen the face of god in a thin film of grime on the porcelain of a VIP lounge’s bathroom with a body guard keeping watch. He has lain cheek and jowl with his own potential imminent arrival to the afterlife for so many years now he can no longer relate to the mundane day to day battles of his congregants.
He was the canary in the cultural mine that was eventually overcome by the noxious fumes, yet somehow he survives.
For all his years in the desert, will he come back with any new insights, new scriptures for the flock? Or is it time he sacrificed himself in order to retire to the glory of Valhalla before it is too late?
I still believe that if the black-collared priest could shake himself awake in time he could still lead the way forward. But if not, it will be up to the rest of us to pick up the torch and light the procession anew.
