Letter to God

Dear God,

After all that we've been through together, I couldn't help falling in love with you.

-Karamazovshina

Worship and Words

Of what use are thoughts if they don't say anything?

Someone, in an oasis of sand, keeps saying, that silence is beautiful.

Not so much. My silence has become noise. White noise. My ears hurt. My mouth is a small, swollen red wound. Rose-colored fear. And my eyes. There is an emptiness on the window sill which engulfs what little I feel. I blink too much. Or sometimes, I don't blink at all. Like pale deadness. My grandmother used to tell me that snakes don't blink. The face of snakes and snaking silence. The face of silence , that has become ugly. The magic mirror no longer reflects a distorted image.

It is the image that distorts the mirror.

I sat in the Rollins Chapel today for a long, long time. I have been sitting in another chapel for a hundred years without getting up. There are no prayers. Just voices. Old shamans and faith healers kissing the music in the wind.

Sometimes, I talk to God.

Sometimes, I think he listens.

Sometimes, I kiss my own hands and laugh.

Sometimes, he kisses them.

Eternity

At 3am last night, I lay down on the small green hill in front of Dartmouth Hall and watched the moon. The sky was dark blue. Cold, cold night. The kind of cold that is thick enough to drink. I was a little drunk, I think. Not on alcohol. Drunk on the sky.

I watched the clouds move, and the moon tread out, then into the grey stains on a sheet of deep, deep smoke. The stars. Some. The moon. A little cold, a little scared. But at peace, the night.

If God promised me eternity, I would want him to give me this one moment. Lie here and watch the sky forever and ever and ever.

The Definition of Fear

I hate words. I hate them. They don't come anymore. Something's happening. I'm finding it incredibly hard to wrench thoughts from my head and fold them into a language. Superficially, I know what's in my head. And I don't want to go too deep inside. I can't write. I must go deep inside. That's where the words are. I need to save them.But I'm just too tired to dive down anymore. I'm just too tired. And uninspired. I can't write.

And that scares the hell out of me.

Fill in the blank

These days, when I write, something is missing.
I'm not quite sure what.
And I'm calling out to you, what-ever you are that is missing.
In some small, secret moments, I realize I need you.

Come back.

Books

I am sitting quietly in the library, trying to work. This one is a beautiful room. Quaint and victorian, with small alcoves and curving arches. Old, brown wood. Carved wood. Clotted, glowey lamps in small bursts of light through each little alcove. And books. I am surrounded by books. Shelves on the walls. Layers and layers of books, stacked and stable and ancient. Some of them have covers that seem to have swallowed water without getting wet: strangely damp and cold. Some have pages like mothwings. Something brushes off them when I touch them.
These books are distracting. They sit there, seducing me silently. I want to pull them out one by one and make love to them. Sit in this room with its dense yellow light and scented, brown wood, for a hundred years and read. Just sit and read. A hundred years of words. A hundred years of stories. A hundred years of the said and spoken.

And occasionally, look out the window.
To see the unspoken. The un-worded.
The untold story that brought me here. A gentle reminder.
That he lives.