Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

11 February, 2008

The scariest thing is that I don't remember everything. All the things I have replaying in my head over and over, and there's still more. It surfaces sometimes in moments that feel like an earthquake. Why does there have to be more?

I didn't tell anyone in the cult much of anything about it, no matter how close I was to them. The philosophy said, ultimately, that karma ruled all, that I had experienced what I did because in a previous life I had inflicted all of those things on someone else. That breaks down to "I deserved it." I always thought I deserved it. I didn't need the cult to give it a philosophical backbone.

There is no god. If there were, he'd be a fucking asshole who didn't merit any further consideration. Once upon a time I was a Pentecostal child who believed with all my heart and prayed and suffered and cried night after night for help and all I ever got was silence. There was no lack of faith. There was a lack of a god. There is nothing in the sky but more sky. And there is nothing in my heart but blood and hurt. There is no great loving, mighty Father and there is no blue-skinned, lotus-eyed boy who plays a flute and dances. I wasted so much time. I should have just prayed to the wall, because at least you can lay your palm on that and feel it solid under your skin.


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