Knock, knock.

When I struggle to slip out of consciousness, inching towards permanent psychosis, I make a run for God's sharp shoulders.

Here's one thing I've learned about God: He's just like every  strong, silent figure. He'll cross his hands and let me wonder if it was strength that lead me back to Him; or if it was the inconvenient vulnerability that I stubbornly stash away on the highest shelf, deepest crook & filthiest corner of my subconscious. Heaving sobs don't always bring Him to my doorstep, but each time I turn my back on Him, His thunder knocks on my bolted door and His rays of light tiptoe their way under the crevice to warm my icy feet.

And here's one other thing:  there's a door glued shut between God & I. I'm constantly leaning against this allegorical plank, screaming at a wooden wall and always thinking that the quiet calm on the other side is just God being his strong, silent self.


My days have turned into a comfortable routine of celestial loneliness. Only His sharp shoulders & I.