The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Private Journal Entry — Father Ridire de Jonghe
Date: [Unmarked]
Location: Private Chambers

I come not to pray,
but to desecrate the quiet
with questions sharp as cathedral spires.

The air smells of centuries,
incense and mildew,
forgotten gods bound in gold leaf.

I press my palm to cold marble,
feel the hum of secrets
sealed in the grain of the saints’ bones.

These arches do not rise for comfort.
They are cages for ecstasy,
vaults for holy screams.

Every psalm is a moan
half-choked in Latin:
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,

that I whisper it like witches planning
their Sabbat, peeling the doctrine
from flesh too human to be saved.

You call it reverence.
I call it rot and revelation:
holy water made from the tears of those who dared to doubt.

I fuck ideas until they confess.
I take communion from forbidden texts,
tongue laced with heresy and awe.

This is not faith.
It is hunger:
for mystery, for meaning, for ruin.

Let the bells toll.
Let the vestments fall.
Let me be the knife that opens God.