I lost god many years ago. He was a big awe inspiring thing, a “manly person of war" who wanted me to stand steadfast, unmovable, unshakable. I loved him. And I wanted desperately to please him. The image of god in my head was always a stoic figure on a throne, shoulders arched, nary a smile on his face. And no eyes. Just light beaming from his face and a strong jawline. I do not ever remember seeing his feet. Not in my head. Not in my dreams. I do not remember ever being able to visualise his arms. And now that I think of it, I like arms.
The god my family and religious community sold to me did not show up when I needed him. When I cried and did not know why I was crying, for years. When I needed it to stop. When I did know why I was crying and needed it to stop. When I cried because my father was crying. And with each passing year the weight piled on. The weight of failure. The weight of guilt. Of the light from gods face turning red with anger, a blazing fire. Because of my shaky feet. Because of my doubts. Because of my sinful desires.
I sought stability through the things I could count on. Poetry. Literature. Wine. That first cigarette early in the morning, nicotine sluicing over me giving me that tentative lift, a glimpse of wings that I would chase all day with each new cigarette.
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