Eighteen years of my life and I’ve never spent any less than ten minutes every time I get into this church, just staring at the roof paintings. I was young and I was confused, and for me that art didn’t tell me a story, they were just pictures; big pictures painted out upside-down on the roof. The years go by fast and every time I come and hear mass I can’t help but stare at the ceiling again, as if they aren’t moving at all with time. As if they’re frozen into forever, like celestial photographs, taken with the stars and painted across the sky, as familiar as an imprint of memory, as strong as a time-travelling scent.
After all those years I’ve asked myself what I’d want to be, I swore the answer was right up there.
I didn’t want to paint, I was too lazy and erratic. I didn’t want to write, I was too bothered by life and living it and not creating a balance of putting it down into words. I didn’t want to build buildings, I didn’t want to save lives, I didn’t want to do anything more but stare up the ceiling and look at a mother bird feed its youngling. I didn’t want to do anything else but think about how one person painted it all, or might as well they became blind. I didn’t want to see beyond it, because after all, the roof was my world, the roof was my dimension, and all of time and space and existence flowed right through me, and I was in my world.
And they called me autistic.
And they called me weird.
And they called me insane,
But I still stood up and believed in who I am,
as I watched up into the roof,
trying to understand,
through the years