"Un cititor trăieşte o mie de vieţi înainte de a muri. Omul care nu citeşte trăieşte doar o singură viaţă." – George R.R. Martin

Quote of the Day – August 19, 2017: Confession of an Atheist Priest – Ion Aion

All right, I was in the Kingdom of Shit. Here, the stale air had changed its composition so much that it had become too dense and harmful to my human lungs. Yes, Zoiţa is the living (still) proof of the huge adaptation force thanks to which man can live even in a shitty world. He is no longer aware of his amazing ability to endurance, only instinctively feels the need to practice it all the time; that's why he's getting married, some even more times.

– Come on, parents, jump your hand, it's good you're here, I can't, I'm dying, close the door! Where are you going? There's no one outside, they're all dead. Come closer, because the old lady can't see! What a young man you are! Eh, life is gone… See, your Holiness, that the door remained open. Push it better so the cold doesn't come in! So, so… erupted the volcano without teeth.

As usual, I'm trying to save my with a well-spoken lie:

– Mamaie Zoiţă, I apologize, but I'm in a lot of a hurry, I'm late for Protoierie, I have to get there this morning urgently, they called me late last night to let me know, I was coming to my mother, but I didn't know if you woke up…

And I quickly begin to read his molitfa: "Lord, Jesus Christ, Shepherd and Lamb, Who lifts the sins of the world…" Then, halfway through the prayer, better directly at the end, that he takes me out, "Behold, spiritual daughter, Christ sits unseen, receiving your confession with… I'm going to get you out of here. (a spasm)… humbly. And I'm just a witness"… During that time, the angry chatter, with her mouth slightly dropped in a corner, where her paralysis had been beaten:

– Father, is there anything i can do if I stay in bed? I can't get up, you know last time, you see I have the candle there on the table, where's the match? Look, that stupid Cocuţa left the table tight again, what to do, Father, she's handicapped, you know, you know, you know. Than she' s better dead, woe to her fate! But I'm more handicapped than she is… Have it been forty days? Life's gone… It's like the dead bells were heard, huh? Who are you burying today?

After all, seeing that I keep shooting "forgive them, Lord, sins" without paying attention to it, she will be clear and silent a little. "And I am only a witness, to confess before Him everything you will tell me. So, don't mind, since you came to the doctor, don't come back uncured." The spasms have passed a little bit, but it is only now that torture begins: I must listen to his confession.

– Mama Zoiță, during this time that's been elapsed since your last confession, did you have a fight with anyone else?

– God forbid! With whom, Father Father, that they're all dead, I'd like to… But even with this drunk in the back that died, I had nothing. You don't know it, you came to us later. He lived here, as you climbed the spear at the first house. Have you ever been in there with Epiphany before? What's up? As long as I helped her, I helped everyone, and she, the liar, says she gave me my money back, but she said I sclerosised and forgot, you jerk Miss… God, forgive me! That's what happens when you do good. That she almost died a long time ago, but I felt sorry for her and I gave her doctor money, she'd rather die from then… Woe to their head, that's how his mother was, and his father… And… And… Then… And still… But most of all…

One question is enough to trigger the lady's verbal diluvius: avalanches of suddenly broken statements by others that impose themselves with even more necessity, lifelong memories quickly swarmed through bald gums, gossip about neighbors who dared to die too soon, variations and lamentations on the theme of human destiny, its in the present case, often concluded with a sincere fart. In my mind, missionary vocation has long left me: Take you would… Go to… Oh,… you're going to be I'd… Why, Lord, didn't you numb his tongue instead of his feet?

It had been about ten minutes, about ten times as long as I had planned to stay, the internal organs desperately required me to leave, yet I felt I couldn't. Something held me, not the excess of priestly debt or the dear old lady, but something else that defied my impulses of self-preservation, something that came from everywhere in me: I felt sorry for her. Before my eyes, a man struggles with death… Compassion is some amazing wonder of life: either it comes from somewhere inside the DNA (human and a few other more successful lives), or it completely blocks it like an outside spell that suddenly turns us into a handkerchief for other people's butts. And Zoiţa had filled me with pity from head to toe, lungs, in ficiles, in all the roars, and she had given me in the eyes, because tears almost had me. The poor old lady was finished — there were only a few stings and bones left of her, which served trembling to a despotic mouth. First his teeth had fallen, ripped, I say, by the angry currents of logoation rather than age, and then her kidney seizures, stroke, pallysy, purulent eruptions and everything else that detailed me each time with the maximum elocincy. The blows of old age had fallen everywhere on her, death had completely gained her and played it on her feet, and the old lady still pretended she didn't get the message. A good man cracks the first, at most on the second attempt. In the case of Zoita, he didn't even know how much he had been falling for nothing. By a sudden turn, the old lady had now confessed to a predilect chapter: her own family.

The book of confession of an atheist priest can be purchased from:

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