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(i thought this was funny cause oscar isaac's the faceclaim of proteus/the god of life)
i.
bibles don't tell stories about god. if they really did, then it'd be more tragic than anything, and no one would follow it like they followed like it determined their future. maybe it should've been about god was like, really like. if it had been, then maybe he wouldn't stare at what people think of him, and prefer to slit his throat to let that version of him sink into the earth, and give the people what they want.
god is good. god is ethereal. god gave us everything. that's what the bibles say.
god is horrible. god is pathetic. god created hell for himself, because it's just what he truly is. satan is the part of god that is never talked about, and hell is the depths of what he does not show. that's what he is.
the other gods, maybe. maybe they had been good. maybe they were ethereal, giving and kind and everything that he wasn't. he wouldn't know, because he didn't care. he'd seen their faces, carved perfectly and showered in gold. they looked perfect. they probably were, but that was all he knew about them. he didn't, and would never go out of his way to stand in front of the people's prayers and answer them, like they did. he'd just end up disappointing them.
there was the book of death, of time, and his. the book of life. his was the vaguest for a reason. carmen morticia grew the flowerbeds for the dead in the gardens of her church, and put every lost soul to bed. death wasn't so scary because of her kind smile and warm touch. ponsie mycroft had her books written in fact, undeniable truth. she was the reason life went on. when war came, she buried them without their biases. time was what was true, what was fact, what was the undeniable. she'd formed after the first sunrise gleamed over the horizon, after the first birth and first death. death gave comfort, she gave truth.
his books were scrawled in half truths, so's-and-so's. he'd never been around to confirm, after all, too uncaring to try. life was the unpredictable process that belonged in the people's hands. there was nothing to be written about it. all he was responsible for was the start of it all. he recalled being born in a garden, where life burst around him. he was alone, before everything began.
he's still alone now, with billions of people sprawled around his little planet. they were all his children. but god didn't care. god couldn't care.
it's hard to care when you hardly care for yourself. it's hard to see anything new when you've been around since the beginning. it's hard to stick around when you've already seen it all; every type of person, every type of weather, sunrise and sunset, every war and revolution and birth and death. he'd buried bodies, helped with births.
sunday was supposed to be the day of resting, but gods don't rest. they're not allowed to. they can't. he can't. god can't. you can't sleep knowing nothing will be no different. you can't sleep knowing you're pathetic, useless. you can't sleep knowing an image of yourself lives in your place, knowing only you know the true version of yourself that you know everybody would hate if you even stepped out of hell.
