A life of courage, joy and independence.
I’ve come to realize that the muse I so often speak of, and which is the source and inspiration for so many of my thoughts, must be the same muse which heralds and inspires the words, music, thought and motivation of the religious. A distinction though, is that I apply and attribute no animating force to this contrived agency beyond the scope, breadth, force and power of my own weak intellect and imagination. It’s no wonder then that I neither trust my god’s wisdom, guidance, or even it’s mere existence.
I told my little god of the desert today. He’d never heard of such a place. I admired his honesty in fessing up his ignorance. This may be one of his stronger traits. He seemed afraid to learn of the solitude in the desert, and he asked me if any gods or spirits might be found there. I told him it seemed there are none in the wastes. I didn’t bother explaining it’s all wastes.
Caring for a very small god isn’t unlike tending a young child. Both are convinced of their omnipotence and immortality, and each at times rails at the world with an impressive wrath and fury. The difference being, the child possesses an anger they can truly inflict upon the world, while my little god relies on my belief to achieve even the slightest destructive end.
My little god begged me today to believe in him. I think he’s become suspicious his immortality is dependent upon my belief and patronage. Did someone tell him of his contingent existence? Has he learned the root cause of his being? How very afraid he must be.