I Heard the Virgin Weeping

 After I was told I could never return to my alma mater, I went back home to Southern California. There I sought healing in the mystical waves south of Big Sur that crashed against the majestic shores of the land that I love more than life itself.

While walking from my friend's apartment to the beach at Costa Mesa, I stumbled upon a rosebush encrusted  labyrinth by an ancient Roman Catholic chapel. While it took me a while to reach the end of the maze, I finally reached its culmination. There at the end of this rose garden stood a statue of the blessed Virgin Mary.

For a hour or more I sat on a bench near her statue weeping. I wondered within myself what I had become and why I had stood against all the sin, odd teaching, nepotism and hypocrisy at my Southern Baptist school. I wondered within myself and asked why I had become this brazen rebel, this forever vigilante. I wept for what seemed like days.

 Then in the bitter distance, in that ancient asylum, I thought I heard a woman's voice. There in my darkest hour, I thought I heard the Virgin Mary crying. When I drew closer to the statue I realized that it was not a representation of the Virgin, but it was in all actuality a bleeding gargoyle!

 And I was wrong! It was not weeping, but merely laughing. Yes, the statue, a figment of my fertile imagination, was laughing at me. So, I kicked it over and went on my merry way.

And with that one, final act of defiance, I joined  Friedrich Nietzsche and all those who smash ideological idols in this postmodern world...