User talk:Gil samaco jr: Difference between revisions
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The weekly publications of an unknown columnist had spread the secret pawns of the charismatic leader who was challenged to seek his true identity. And since the man behind the revelation was so hidden behind words and craft that covered his reality, no proverbs nor psalms was to decipher the soul of the high spirited writer who seemed to expose the wet past and nakedness of the one who claimed that he was indeed that son of man. But since this strange writer had had secretly sent his works weekly, there was a slim chance of invoking his credibility, especially in the city where readers reacted individually in guesses and question marks that seem to anticipate what was the end of the string. But he was even more compared to their speculations. He long contemplated the views of the pastor, and for which, he drew the line that aroused doubt between believers and leeches who sucked the pot of money from the religious leader who used the name of the Messiah and earned beyond imagination. He sent letters every year, to active devotees, letters of love and religiousity that God had been watchful, it was perectly addressed, that even the most profound experience of man was rightly squeezed to its emotional form and in the end, the word "tithe" invisibly moved their hands to their pockets and squeezed it to the poorest drop as well. There was nothing wrong though, in a backward society where faith becomes a necessity. But there was obsession beyond doubt that he, as a man treated God, flattered by the followers who praised him. And like the hands of evil that compulsively attack the will of man in a time when he is most vulnerable. His obsession caused him problems, and to wipe out those problems to uplift his name, he used the element of man to rule the land he thought was bequethed to him by the father he assumed holy. mad man's deed that halted the efforts of peace in the promise land. |
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Desperate, seconds every moment when the howling sound disgusted him. When Berto, the broken tenor sang from night to morning and the smell of IOdine or chlorine detered the foul urine and feces left pasted in the floor. Blank stares, zombie-like men panicked inside the pen,locked, dressed in clothings made of flour sacks; their souls, floated in the universe of the unknown when the worldrevolved to change the tides of the ocean. Their eyes no longer reflect the richness of days, and the pillars of the building where the "lesser kind" were tied with heavy chains shivered in the cold dawn. Julian was another, when he made four stances every day, in fact, this was his only achievement in long bouts with catatonia. More so when he resisted therapies, snubbed the efforts of medical enthusiast who tried, initiated, and studied the magic of psychiatry. "Almost", when they tried to fathom the disorders of spirit and flesh, in an argument strongly supported by western science, and a problem jumbled by the labyrinth of natural and supernatural. "Almost", like no other conclusion that can be drawn except the line and circumference of modern medicine, doses of pharmacological agents that alleviated the sickness for hours only. And yet, when the master of "mind craft" boasted himself that psychotherapy is like a surgery, fifty others waited for seven years to receive the final diagnosis, but the constant shift of views based on the western manual had them spent sleepless bedtime and their eyes became dizzy of two probabilities similar to the difference of two sided coined tossed from the tallest mountain peak. |
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