I think I was fifteen when it happened. I remember it well. I was sitting in church, something I did by choice twice a week. So, I was sitting there taking notes, hanging on to the words of the pastor — like a good little Christian — as I absent mindedly started doodling on the page. The kid next to me, who I'd borrowed the pen from, whispered "could you not waste the ink in that pen, it's an expensive pen." His words irritated me so deeply that I was suddenly ripped from my hypnotic state. A state, that until this moment, was all I had ever known. It felt like I imagine it would feel if you were tripping on acid with 400 people and instantly became the only sober person in sight.
I looked around the room and I knew that I was the only person thinking clearly. My focus returned to the pastor and suddenly I couldnt hear the words he was saying. Sounds were coming out of his mouth but each one blended into the next and became a meaningless stream. I looked around again to see if anyone else had noticed this too. They hadn't. I was all alone.
Alone and sober, I posed a question to myself that, in a strange way, became my salvation. I thought: "words? what are words? what meaning do they have but that which we give them?". In that moment it all became so clear I couldnt believe I'd bought in for so long. But the years of religious dogma tought me to rebuke these types of thoughts. Try as I might, religion had lost its luster. In the span of fifteen minutes fifteen years of indoctrination left me.
In the years that followed bits of religion lingered and every once in a while I'd entertain the idea. Never again have I been able to indiscriminately take in religious canon.
Thank you, Clay, for letting me borrow your pen. It wasnt until today that i realized the true value of that expensive pen.