[when i was a child]

god is not a white haired and bearded old man. god does not live within the spaces between words, leaves, the wind - god does not listen to us when we are at our worst, breaking down in showers, buses, in classrooms, wide open spaces, it does not live as close to you as your aorta, it does not forgive you, or forsake you.
god, like death, is not.

do you believe in god? he asked.

no, i believe in life.

-

it's all existential, post modern, modernist, enlightened, positivist, apologist, structuralist, linguistic bullshit anyway - deconstructed and reconstructed, in seven different flavours, sold to you the citizen/consumer/human being, built by you the angeldemon, burnt up to a deadly crisp by you, the collection of senses and organs that is called (in this symbolic system of signs and concepts) a human. hu-man. namuh. huwoman? wohuman?

it is so very, very easy to destroy something beautiful. all i know for sure is that i am the only one in this orange neon room, watching the yellow lamplight spill itself all over the carpet. we're all just spilling ourselves out, after all; again, and again, and again. and again.