I know my cell intimately like a friend, a brother, or a lover. I know its dimensions and I can recite its diameter and area. I have counted every stone on the wall and I have named them. Though they are hard and entrenched, forever immobile, I breathe life into them. In the contours of the stones I can see their wrinkles and jaw lines, their sneers and black teeth. Jagged edges reveal eyes; lips and mouths all shaped into creatures. These subjects, although I am their creator they mock me with sharp piercing words and indignant laughter because they know the door of the cell is always open.

At a moment I can leave. At a moment I can leave, and their voices would silence. But alas I love my cell. The stones of the walls — my family, my friends — what companionship would I have behind these walls? My friends and family I know their number, I know their laughter, I know their names. Self-hate is the name of those on the bottom. Interspersed midway and on the top are sadness and his brother pride. Rejection and fear are by the corners. Anger and envy are at the top. Despair is the cement that holds the family together. He is the patriarch and although his face is veiled his cold presence keeps the walls high and the stones numerous.

I adore my cell. Its what I know. It’s the continuation of my heart’s inclination. Yet I loathe the mocking, I hate these faces. They unravel my being. They create in me madness and the madder I become the more enclosed these walls become. The closer they come the faces create hands which stroke and glide all over me. But these hands are not strong enough to keep me there. Out of the corner of my eye I see the door again and again, and it is open.

Around the corner I smell incense and can see a sliver of light emanating from a deeper red glow. I know behind these doors you wait. The question of whether I can marvel at your glory is presented with an answer. This answer is a garden and all I need to do is walk towards it through the door. Headlong I will see candles lit, and wax softening. I will see a trail of blood smeared on the ground leading me to a table. On the table a feast is set before me an image of what I may become. In consumption and reception of the bread and wine I may truly worship you. In your presence I will have no other wish than to confess, release, and vacate my soul of the entanglements from which it is suspended in. As I walk towards the door the stones laughter turns to desperate pleas for my stay. But when I get to the threshold I hear silence. When I turn around I see a small square room; a room too small to live in and a frozen family that was never mine.

— Davey

St. Peter's Fireside

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