Act of creation
Lord, do you show your wonders to the dead?
I became soaked in the water of purity... broke down walls that stood so high that the swiveling tendrils of the far-reaching spacial goddesses could barely comprehend its paradoxical tendencies. Consummation! A celebration. Frenzied rituals is a signifier of human life.
Our egotistical selves revel in the attention we get from God and God and God, the third God, the fourth God, the fifth God. He loves us (isn't he just as tired as the rest of us?). We become one, and dissolve into eights.
Let's look on this one here. Just like a Renaissance painting, the focus is on my hands. The calloused ones that are clasped in prayer. He's just watching. He's just looking, maybe even disinterestedly... I forgive you, I say, to him, especially, I forgive you, for what you did to me. When you tried to take me apart, rebuild me from the beginning, start me from pure white, I dragged my hands up and down on the grimy city sidewalk, and you just watched me bleed. It is the loveliest flogging.
"God forgives you," a pastor might say now and then, to the group of teenage boys. "Whatever you did, God forgives you."
Well, I don't!
Recently, I see the empty sky. I sit, I take out my yarn and needles. I want to be safe. Let's rest in an empty field, empty, no signs of human life, I want to destroy, to rebuild. To be autonomous: I want to be like a self-motorized robot, drifting into space, waving my arms aimlessly, I want the world to be empty and quiet, yet I don't want to be empty. I want to be the only full being left: a testament to the thing that asked me to shrink, fade, and die.