My Faults

all the questions I have about being alive.

I sometimes pray to God, in case he is ever listening, because I am deeply interested in things I have never known.

I apologise to Him for not believing in His goodness. Is this what I am made for? To continuously say sorry for everything I cannot be, even when no one is listening?

Are we really just flesh, and bones, and blood, just like every breathing animal that came before us?
If the deer had a god, what would it pray for?
To live, peaceful, with bountiful food and glorious, expansive, green landscapes.

Is that not everything we are searching for?

Embrace death as emptiness, feel it, fear it, let it consume you. Greet it as an old friend.

Does an all-seeing god fear anything?
Yes, he fears to be forgotten. For what is a god with no disciples?

What is a human being without their soul? A shell? Or an anomaly?
A baby, ready to relive, to relearn, the broken world around him.

And the breeze blows in the birds wings, even though they have never sacrificed themselves to receive the gift of wind.
They have never had to fall from the sky in hope of rain.

Though, I don’t truly know.

Maybe the god of birds sits on the farthest cloud, preening his feathers as he observes his earth’s gifts.

We are all unconscious beings unless proven otherwise.
Does everything have to have a meaning to exist?

Is there a prey’s word for death, or is the desire to live so overwhelmingly instinctual that they have no choice but to run?

We say everyone is a bit broken, but does that mean we were created that way?

What hope do we have in a god that condemns us to spend our whole lives begging for his forgiveness, if only for the sin of being born a human?

Were we not flowering from the earth, gentle and natural, like a lily of the valley?

Were we born setting fire to the home we were welcomed in?
Maybe we are all hard-wired to annihilate, even though we seem bare and pure at first.
Naturally, selected to be the warmonger, by the hand of anyone who can hear us.

I am on my knees, my legs are brushed by the grass, my fingers kissed by the warm ground.
Why am I ashamed of the way I am presented, when my face was sculpted by hands I could not see.
We come into the world crying because we have witnessed the miracle of life itself, the apparition of divinity in every cell of our bodies.
We are filled with a deep sadness that we must spend our lives destroying it.

I shut my eyes and beg.
For what? I am not sure.
But the sadness has overtaken me and I am in desperate need of salvation from my own mortal destiny.
The duty to exist.

Lie, face-down, and listen to her breathing.

You are a figment of your own imagination, you are perfectly real.

Breathe with her, she is inviting you to choose against your god-given duty.
She is teaching you how to love.

I pray again to apologise, because I did not mean to be spiteful.
It seems it comes naturally.

I keep my eyes closed, because on my eyelids I see her invitation in the junctions of my veins.