It needs to be slightly shorter, but I really just want to know if it's too cheesy.
The confessional was extremely odd. Sandwiched between the baubles of Elsewhere's collaborative museum, it looked straight out of a Catholic Church. It was my first trip to Elsewhere, where random objects and structures were used by artists from all over the world. It was a "living" museum, so visitors were encouraged to mess with the items. Elsewhere fascinated me, but I wasn't sure how to act around the artsy, alternative folks that hung around. I was out of my element, and I worried that I would seem pretentious or snobby since I was so unlike them. I walked toward the confessional, easily the strangest thing in the room. The curtain revealed a small bench under a dim bulb. In front of the bench was a worn journal, filled with the scrawls of many writers. I sat down and followed the written directions to "disappear behind the curtain." In the journal were secrets, desires, confessions. Every person before me had held the pen that I grasped and had written down the essence of themselves in a few lines. Some entries were as simple as "I wish I could buy my own house," and others revealed more, like "the love of my life isn't really the love of my life at all." Reading through the pages, I grew uncomfortable. The idea of writing down a bit of my essence seemed daunting and terrifying. If it had been a math problem or reading analysis question, I would've known had to handle the situation. This was a kind of intellectual challenge in which I had little experience: expressing my true self to strangers. I put down the pen and sat back in the little chair. Before giving up, I closed my eyes and left my insecurities behind to just breathe. I suddenly became aware of the moth-eaten scent of the curtains. I felt the wooden seat sway under its thousandth occupant. I saw the dim light press against the backs of my eyelids, and I heard the faint laughter drifting from another room. For a moment I became a part of that confessional, a part of every previous confessor. I forgot my fears, opened my eyes, and looked at the journal, feeling my pulse quicken with heightened clarity. My hand found the pen and I wrote "I am not afraid" on a crinkled page near the back of the journal.
The confessional was extremely odd. Sandwiched between the baubles of Elsewhere's collaborative museum, it looked straight out of a Catholic Church. It was my first trip to Elsewhere, where random objects and structures were used by artists from all over the world. It was a "living" museum, so visitors were encouraged to mess with the items. Elsewhere fascinated me, but I wasn't sure how to act around the artsy, alternative folks that hung around. I was out of my element, and I worried that I would seem pretentious or snobby since I was so unlike them. I walked toward the confessional, easily the strangest thing in the room. The curtain revealed a small bench under a dim bulb. In front of the bench was a worn journal, filled with the scrawls of many writers. I sat down and followed the written directions to "disappear behind the curtain." In the journal were secrets, desires, confessions. Every person before me had held the pen that I grasped and had written down the essence of themselves in a few lines. Some entries were as simple as "I wish I could buy my own house," and others revealed more, like "the love of my life isn't really the love of my life at all." Reading through the pages, I grew uncomfortable. The idea of writing down a bit of my essence seemed daunting and terrifying. If it had been a math problem or reading analysis question, I would've known had to handle the situation. This was a kind of intellectual challenge in which I had little experience: expressing my true self to strangers. I put down the pen and sat back in the little chair. Before giving up, I closed my eyes and left my insecurities behind to just breathe. I suddenly became aware of the moth-eaten scent of the curtains. I felt the wooden seat sway under its thousandth occupant. I saw the dim light press against the backs of my eyelids, and I heard the faint laughter drifting from another room. For a moment I became a part of that confessional, a part of every previous confessor. I forgot my fears, opened my eyes, and looked at the journal, feeling my pulse quicken with heightened clarity. My hand found the pen and I wrote "I am not afraid" on a crinkled page near the back of the journal.
