Author S. K. Nicholas

Dead flies and faithless figures who dance as if there were no such thing as angels. Dead inside and loving every moment as if the pain of being on the outside for an hour or two were somehow worth it. And all of those years and all of those months where nothing happened- how strange they are to now ponder. To imagine those days washing away sin with enough soapy water to drown a thousand nuns who were happily enjoying a swim beneath the watchful eye of their everlasting God before the waves came and dragged them out to the maelstrom not one of us can ever escape from. Oh, those days mean everything to me now. I used to believe in him, once, but the older I got, the more I didn’t see the point of such an overseer, not one that religion holds so dear, at least. My God is without words- she is energy- she is nature and dreams and everything untouched by the scab-infested minds of man. She is a whisper and a feeling, but nothing more. She’s in the breeze and upon the leaves of all the trees; she’s in every vein and on the event horizon of every black hole, and she has never uttered a single word about war and peace and the meaning of life, and this is why I love her. They say I’m mad, but compared to most, I think I’m pretty sane. My God has no rules; she requires no worship. She has no need for churches nor for bloodshed. She is a hymn as old as time; she is a kiss that has travelled a billion light years from the eyes of long-dead species to rest upon my cracked lips as I twist and turn beneath sheets drenched in sweet. She is a poem. She is a grain of sand upon the finger of a child who knows only the love of magic. She is a song- one that reduces me to tears even though I try so hard to be cold, and Lord knows how I’ve tried shutting down so as not to be hurt yet again. Yet her voice brings me to life, and as shapeless as it is, it lifts me up to the sun and warms these cold bones of mine until they feel the same as they did back when I was a child myself.