Dear God; dear Universe; dear Paradoxical Exigence of the Mind,
I awake to the quarantine of the rain, spraying me like an infected bloom; my inner voice trying to cleanse me of the consternation that has clouded my internal skies for some time now; sparking storms and raging waves that crash against your distant shores. I awake with eyes wide open, with sudden appreciation for the shape of my fear; the well-trodden hopes of an effigy clothed in resonant but disdainful robes, walking in shoes it has no business to wear with such pride, and such apparent grace.
I breathe in the moistness of your negative space, the space without me, as you reside within me, and I realise that I am the one that takes all the risks, and I’ll say this as simply as I can, because you don’t have to. I was unable to see this before because I thought that my faith in you compelled me to make all the effort, that it was my charge, my duty to show you how committed I was to you. Yet I see now, as clear as the daylight refracted through the beads of water that now decorate my willing but tired skin, that you sit figuratively in your divine omnipresent mental armchair, omniscient and non-corporeal, not real, incapable of action, except vicariously through me, and you watch me do it all.
You watch me as I jump into the unfathomable abyss, shouting my battle cry in both fear and determination while you munch your pop-corn and watch my life like a movie in slow motion Technicolor; with your 3-D specs and your surround-sound pressing the darkness around you in intimate embrace, and ridiculous High Definition quality, that muffles the hiss of white noise from beyond the walls, and the pin-holed shoe-box with its stage of lollipop-stick treads.
You watch me as I perform my show, as I flounder and struggle through my life, with the avid appreciation of a cold and empty space full of random bits of dust and gas that serve no purpose, other than to look vacuous and pretty, through my eyes. I have become tone-deaf to the silence you offer, so that I can no longer tell if you speak to me or not, if what I hear whispering through my thoughts isn’t just the sound of the wind as it passes through the leaves of the sky-bound trees; their roots buried firmly and deeply in the dirt of my soul.
If it wasn’t for me, you would not have purpose at all, there would be no Us. You as the Divine cannot exist without my devout friendship I realise; and as Paradoxical Exigence of the Mind, you only exist because I think of you, as I only exist because you think of me, apparently. I understand so very well now, that as you have nowhere to go, then I must go everywhere for you, so that I may know happiness and love, and comprehend the weight of commitment and self-pride on your behalf. I see that my loneliness is your stamp of approval; the selfless dedication of one committed to the void, to nothingness, to non-being, in order to BE, and to be absolved of all the things I didn’t quite manage to get around to, because I was too busy looking in the wrong bloody places. And as I evaluate this most precious of gifts from you, O’Holiest of Thous, I realise what a shit deal it is, and that your Word that I wore about my heart like a salve until moments ago, means nothing to me.
It is you that requires my approval in order to be a part of my life. I’d like to see you dance for me for a change, to show me how much you value and appreciate me by walking out of your cavernous theatre on two physical legs, crossing mountains, oceans, and time to wherever it is I happen to be. When you can step out of my imagination, from the periphery of my vision, and my heart, then I will know that you mean what I think I hear you say. Then I will wear you Word with pride, and only then will your Word mean everything.