I see, now, how gods are made. You fight and you fight and you fight — right up until the break. Then, at the very last second, you cave.
You could have changed the world, but it would have cost your soul. It would have been slow erosion and you wanted the wash of the flood. You would have been sunk in the dark and lost your heart. You came close. To death, many times. But the cost of that loss — you thought — was too great a price to pay. The risk too high. And with life, they were able to coax you down.
So, you folded hands and packed it in, and packed auditoriums instead. The monsters said you couldn’t make it without their help and their hand and crumbs from their table. Turns out, they were right. The machine runs this way because it was created to.
But, as I watch, I feel a heavy sinking in my gut. A hopelessness none of your faith or words can cure. Because if the gods don’t hold to tack, who will?
Society is a sinking ship and everyone is tied, laughing, to the bow. No-one is brave enough to catch wind and let go. So, no-one even tries to untie the ropes. The knots would slip oh so fucking easily, if you’d have slipped a finger underneath. But excuses and logic reasoning is so easy to believe, and to bow is kinder on the knees than to fall.
But what do I know?
I will never be a god. Never dwell inside your columned rooms on the top of your Olympus. I’ll be small beans in the back seat. Small shells collected by small hands on a vast sea shore. Drift across an ocean slow, a single coconut. Over time and over scope, I might help change the ecosystem of a distant island. But of course, I little seed, will never know.
I will live a whole life in want and lack, risk and chance, loss and loneliness. I live there by choice. I’m an idealist to the hardened core, and I don’t know how to say “no more”. I’m just a seeker grabbing pieces enough to survive. And, I don’t need excess to fight back. I, sea swallow, store my venom well and wait.
One day, my time too will come. But it will be dimmer and slower, and I will not see its flash.
I have no spite for you and your ways, and I don’t mean to be mean.
This is just an honest review. The spirit’s response. A cry from the gut.
If your godly eyes grace this place, just take these words for what their worth.
I don’t have a lot of hope; cynical night hunter that I am.
I already said: gods and ghosts don’t meet.
I’ve seen the proof of why. Now, I believe.
Peace. One final time.