I want to sit up straight, suffer quietly and break a sweat. I want to work out my salvation with fear and trembling. I hunger for righteousness but my laziness overtakes me. My distractions are plentiful and intoxicating. I am a slave to the meaningless and I knowingly subscribe to the illusion, momentarily satieted by big shiny lies. I eat heartily until the sun sets and then groan with regret when I lay down on my pillow at night. It's so quiet. Too quiet.
What if it's real. Really real. What if every prayer is heard and every hair numbered? How can I account for my behaviour other than to say, I just didn't know. Because it's true, I don't know.
I'm haunted by the thought that God is even more than the thought that God isn't.
Are you hanging on these words God? Do you hear you deaf old bastard? Sometimes I hate you.
Apparently only a wicked and adulterous generation looks for a miraculous sign. So be it. I never claimed to be anything but. And yet I don't want you to move a single finger in my direction because I suppose I know which one it will be and I don't need the confirmation.