my god is so tangible, so near. it rains and it sprouts as an egg. it can touch, and it can cry. it breathes and it interacts. yet his requires passage, prayer and letters. i cannot deny its beauty, and i love to watch him glow within it. he reverts to a little boy to me in such a moment – a boy given his potential so fully, that he may surpass it and seek the intangible god.
i have a little narrative i play inside my head. that i have a son who loves me very much. he asks me about god, why his father has a god yet his mother does not. i sit with him and tell him about god – his incarnations and the choice we all make to resonate most with whichever form we perceive him to be. that my god is the egg, or the rains and the world beside me, the earth beneath me. and his fathers’ is in the skies. my son thinks for a moment, and then tells me,
i was bestowed such praise so simply, so truthfully. and in that honour, i realise something else – god must be perfect. god cannot have a wavering moment, the ability to harm, he only loves. and i would love my son entirely, but i would hurt him too. i tell him i’m honoured, and i don’t say more. i wish to be his god as long as i can.
this narrative is mine. it is the voice in my head that wants the world to regard me as their god. to know that i could love them endlessly. i suppose that i am short of such praise, yet i desire it. and the little voice in my head tells me stories of it. she reminds me that all my love to give can be mine, and i don’t know how to take it. how do i take it when i want to share it? love is the only thing i do.
i seem doomed to love. as if it’s a woman’s destiny, her prophecy. because we were never given our whole potential first, we were handed it by the men, whose gods are in the skies.