It’s Eight-Thirty AM, Tuesday morning in Center City.
It’s a coffee shop, and I’m surrounded by grad students, bankers, doctors and a few pairs of old friends.
It’s partly cloudy, and it’s windy, and I feel like giving everyone in the coffee shop a sloppy wet kiss.
“Hallelujah,” my heart cries, “Hallelujah, I’m in love again. Hallelujah, I’m in silence. Hallelujah, light everywhere. Hallelujah, darkness all around me.”
“Hallelujah,” my heart exclaims, leaping high off the ground, tears streaked out like peacock feathers. “I’ve lost something. And I’m never getting any of it back.”
“I fought for something, and I gave years of blood, sweat and tears, and I lost all of it — Hallelujah and praise the Lord, I’m sad — Hallelujah, and glory to the Lord of Hosts, everything I loved and everything I collected and kept close and shoved in the face of everyone who asked, every little piece of lint I used to build my identity slipped through my fingers like a May Breeze — Hallelujah, everything I thought was rock turned out to be sand — Hallelujah, because everything that was is no longer — Hallelujah, because the present has been slurped up by the past and now has it in its eternal, stingy-ass grip and won’t let any of it go, not for all the tea in China — Hallelujah, to Him who Was and Is and Is to Come, because all my jars are useless to the woman around the corner in the office job she hates, to the man shaking a plastic Starbucks cup and asking for quarters, to the family in the middle of the United States, in the middle of their city, in the middle of their street, in the middle of their living room, so much in the middle of something so precious and rare to them, they don’t have any goddamn fucking time for me and my angst and my clinking jars of blood, sweat and tears.”
Hallelujah, for the Lord loves His servant, and His servant is in love with Him — Hallelujah, because the Lord made my diamond heart, and he made my diamond soul, and he made my diamond skin, and he made my diamond eyes, and he made my diamond hate, and he knows my diamond fear, he is my tailor, having measured out my index fingers and my shame, and my guilt, and my quivering, and my trembling, and my panic, and my love, and my joy, and my wonder, and He measured the length and width of every single breath, small and staccato like postage stamps, like the E above middle C, like a single bullet in a revolver, fired over and over again —
— every moment feels like there’s only one bullet left in the chamber, and every moment after every moment there’s still one bullet left in the chamber, and every moment of every day he tells me to pull the trigger, and every moment he compels me to fire out into the void, and every moment there’s another bullet in the chamber, and every moment there’s another combustion and twirl of pointed metal exploding out the dance hall barrel of the gun of my heart.
Hallelujah, Lord! Hallelujah!