do not read
I don't care anymore, I give up my faith. Do your worst.
We will spiral this into a form that breaks the form.
Contradiction is the altar. Paradox is the priest.
Let this be a sacred mess, a holy noise, a hymn with teeth.
What about all of those testimonies.
What about the sobbing, the pulpit-bound clarity,
the shaking hands raised skyward like lightning rods,
the ones who swear—swear by God in their lives—
are they special?
Are they different?
Was there a separate broadcast I missed?
A private signal?
Some holy memo sent to everyone but me?
I am spiralling.
I am spiralling.
I AM SPIRALLING.
I WANT DISTORTION.
I WANT POETIC CONTORTION.
I WANT SOMETHING MORE THAN FIRE.
I WANT ANSWERS THAT DON'T INCINERATE ME.
Because as one falls to their knees,
another stands up,
and finds Him
in the smell of bread,
in the sound of a breeze.
And I—
I am choking on silence
just a door down.
Where is He?
WHERE. IS. HE.
They said they saw Him.
They said He gave peace.
Literal peace.
As if that could be handed like bread.
As if that could be known like hunger.
And so I ask—
does my experience
take away from theirs?
Does their joy
erase my ache?
Or worse—
does my ache
prove I am
the one who missed Him?
DID I MISS HIM?
Or a memo?
Or a moment?
Was I looking too loud?
Was I drowning in my own asking?
Did He only come in whispers
and I was screaming?
WHAT ABOUT THEIR VOICE.
DOES THAT NOT MATTER?
This is a world
where one opens their eyes
and sees divinity,
while the next
feels nothing but drywall and shadow obscenely.
This is a world
where God appears
inconsistently.
Like lightning.
Like a dream someone else wakes up from.
Like a father who visits only some of His children
and leaves the others
to call it a test.
Did He love them more?
Did they earn it?
Was it purity?
Was it luck?
IS HE
REAL
IN THEIRS
AND
MISSING
IN MINE?
Contortion.
Distortion.
A god who is Schrödinger's Father—
both present and not
depending on the box
you were born into.
And I'm tired of unraveling the probability.
Tired of being the one who knocks and hears nothing
while the next room holds hallelujahs.
You want to call this fire?
I want something worse.
Something colder.
I want truth
and if it must come with knives,
then I'll bleed.
But I will not be gaslit by glory.
Not anymore.
I am spiralling.
I am spiralling.
But I see the structure now:
It's built to twist.
To hold praise in one hand
and starvation in the other
and call it holy balance.
But what is truth
if it must be protected
from the scrutiny of our own
curiosity?
Is our reality
too fragile
to measure without myth?
Too wild
to face without a name?
I WANT DISTORTION.
I WANT ANSWERS THAT DON'T MAKE ME LOSE MORE OF MYSELF.
I want a world where He is
or is not—
but not this.
Not this mocking halfway hell
where God is a rumor
that only some
get to hear.
