privatebishop

…And Everything In Between pt 2 Dusty and dirty, mice and men reside in this hallowed hall, antiquated equipment adorn the many nooks and crannies. Reeking of days of refuse, bodies and other things too foul to name, we roam the halls, dizzy from parties enviable of Caligula. Army barrack? Prison block? A cursory glance would allow either of these images to come to anyone's mind, void of creation, cleanliness or culture (bacterial I cannot say the same). Here, we live, study and sleep, true men braving the hazards of a higher education. Here, practiced lethargy battles determined tenacity (not very hard, mind you), abstaining

…And Everything In Between pt 1 What purpose does a broken television serve? None, I say. The blank screen which once danced with lights from a studio far away sits dull, listless, and pointless. Brought to us merely for this purpose, no other. What happens when we lose our purpose? Are we to sit on the shelf, gathering dust, left to unfulfilled promises to be "gotten rid of soon?" Or do we pick ourselves up, create new purpose, and the cut through blank silence that sat heavy around us for so long, bringing new light to a world left un-entertained? I have lied to you, my broken television, in a manner most undeserving. Yo

Damnation Trapped, motionless and forever contained. Frozen for all eternity in this vile imitation of my sin. Tormented by guilt, my agony a constant reminder. I am the warden the guard and the inmate of my own private prison. Never leaving, never moving, never resting. The mocking idea of Paradise only adds to my torment. Mine, mine alone! You hear me?! A companion, even a hated one would serve to offer some sort of respite, yet I have seen         fit to deny myself even this small modicum of distraction. Alone in my void, no dark, no light, sound nor silence. I won't allow it. Gluttony or wrath, avarice or lust, it's all the

Paradise Paradise is a void, not unlike Hell. Eternal damnation met with comfortable solitude, deafening silence and whispering quiet. Mine is a place of creation, making birds To fly and alight on trees sprung from nothingness. Empty space becomes full of life and sunshine, turns to rust and fog in the blink of an eye. Paradise is not constant, it does not pander to me. Imaginary denizens live and die without so much as a word. Variety is that which sustains Paradise, and which  lacks in Hell. Cold met with hot, wet with dry, comfort with terror. Paradise is a place close to home. Paradise. I'm already there.