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Written on 28 April 2013

What's it like, to have the confidence of God?

In yourself, I mean: what's it like?

To know you're right about everything; capable of anything. The way you judge and assume, preach assumption as fact. The way you pick the wings off my achievements.

You do not have opinions. You blame contrary views on the imperfections of heretics. Your congregation is yourself, cloned in your mirror each morning.

Are you compensating, perhaps, or trying to compete; do you feel threatened; or is it a true surge of boiling energy, burning like the sun and roaring like a furious demon fighting its exorcism:

ME. ME. ME.

melting me down to blackened bones every time you speak?

What's it like?

 

Now I've twigged, of course, it's easier, and I've plotted a different course (although even then you tried to wrest control). But really: what's it like? Perhaps we could swap places. Or wait:

all that was needed was for you to soften, to allow me to impact upon or just graze your planet-hard world-view. I don't need to be the meteorite strike that makes life extinct, although maybe you have that paradigm shift coming. But something that registers in your upper atmosphere before it dissolves, well, that's a start.

Listen: you hurt me. Look: I've learnt.