There on the window sill... ballet with the cigar smoke...but it wasn't what I had hoped for. The coy tendrils were only there to remind me, to mock me.
"Get your life together old man." I say to a spackled ceiling... are those skyward pocks the huts of liliputians? If that were the case, wouldn't they fall groundward, floorward, bedward as it were seeing as that's where I was occupied in my chat with the ceiling.
Do these liliputions find me to be some hovering God. Some angst-ridden, hair-thinning, birds eye deity of boredom.
Am I so upside down...
If I tried to touch you tiny worshippers... would I accidentally crush you? Would my benevolence break your fragile bodies. Does my tyrannically rumbling voice terrify your children...
Do you live in fear as we do?
My hand closes around air... I think to get my step ladder... but think better of it. God's should be invisible but not wholey unheard. Felt, but not reached.
You have to use a delicate touch.
A soothing, silent, loving whisper that lacks hurricane gusts of wind.
Do I frighten you, my liliputians? ... Do you hate me for not being small... tangible... loveable like you.
Do you not understand that all my incoherent roars, my hut destroying fingertips... my silent unhelpful stares...
They are all a plea for your love. They are my affection written in the sky in an illegible alphabet.
It is such a lonely thing to be God.
