What if God wasn’t God? What if God was just this giant Hug that waited for you after your life ended and you were finished putting up with everything you had to put up with(, and some things that you didn’t have to put up with)? What if he worked through people that hugged back extra tight, so he allowed them to call themselves Prophets because his one goal was to get everyone up to what the Prophets liked to call Heaven? When really it was just a giant Hug for you to

finally

just fall asleep in

The only way in would be to believe in Something.

So he allowed the prophets to do what they did because the easiest way to get people believing in anything is to get a bunch of people to believe in Something. Mass-faith. (Mass-murder?)

But, as long as you still believed in Something, be it

music

art

the power of humanity

the power of freedom from the prophets, freedom to live outside of their word, even

you were in.

Why can’t it be like that? There are people that are more alive outside of the church than they ever will be when they are within it.

There’s a hug that’s supposed to be so unconditional, but the Prophets messed up

and no one wants it anymore, so they turn to their neighbor for that embrace, a person they’ll know more than they’ll ever know that omnipotent Hug in the sky

and that makes me wonder: Did the prophets really mess up by turning people away from God, and toward each other?

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I don’t feel like thinking about Science or Philosophy or my indignant peers that assert the teachings of both concepts, instead of listening to anyone that dares to converse with their spirituality—

that stubborn ball of light inside of me that refuses to die before it gets some answers that can’t be found out of the mouths of old bearded men, or textbooks. It flickers in the face of logic, but in the dead of night in that brief moment between the second my thoughts fade out and the second sleep takes me, it shines brighter than I let it during the day, until it makes the shadows of my thoughts leap and dance in my dreams or nightmares

and I wake up more confused than I was before I fell asleep.

I know there’s something in the sky, but I’m through with the ancient paperbound conditions of men that played God thousands of years ago infringing on my view of the paint streaked clouds at sunset and the shine of the long-deceased stars that overlap them.

I want to see the sky the way I used to. The way I look at my discarded paint palette after a day of getting lost inside of a painting. I don’t want to know where this color ends and where that one begins or what spectrum it falls under and how I can make that color again. 

I want to get lost in the sky and be okay with it. I want to get lost in the sky without wondering whether it really is mine to get lost in. 

I want to get lost in the sky without the certainty of textbooks and cynical old men weighing me down so that I can’t get a better view.

I want to believe in the sky. Why can’t I believe in the sky? The sky that gives me room to explore, instead of the world beneath it filled with humans that run around trying to traffic the skies.

I will believe in the sky that encourages me to explore what I’ve unexplored, instead of being bogged down by the affairs of men that chase me into my safety net where I get tangled up in the things I’m sick of indulging my thoughts with.

I’m sick of writing about myself.

I’m sick of the view from down here. I want to believe in the sky.