Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Please just R&R. My stories keep getting read... just no one is reviewing. Please just review. Thank you.
I've never believed in God. I never went to Mass or Sunday School like all the other kids I know. I've never even read the Bible. I mean really, what's to read... A book written thousands of years ago with Thees and Thous telling you what you should and shouldn't do? Respecting people and learning to love despite differences? Said book being the cause of so much bloodshed and unrest in the world and throughout history? Yeah, I don't think so.
And it's not just the Bible... it's the shitty stuff I see everyday. It's my mom and how much love she has to give but all she can manage is to hook up with these stupid fuckers that take her for granted and beat her until she can't move.
It's Marco, a really sweet, stand up; smart guy who can't help what he is and still people hate him for it. The very people who preach about tolerance and love. How can I believe in a God that would forsake someone like Marco just for being what that same God made him?
So no, I don't believe in God. I don't believe in luck or fate. I'm not superstitious and I don't do real well with pretend. But I have my own spirituality.
Not Yoga like Paige and Hazel were so into. I don't do breathing exercises or meditation. I don't visualize myself somewhere calm and serene. I don't have to.
I look at her. She's my spirituality. My calm in this raging sea of hell and confusion. I worship nightly at that alabaster altar and send my not so silent pleas for reprieve. And she opens her arms to me and takes me in.
Me, this tired, sad little waif that has no tribute, no alms; no tithe to offer her in return. But she asks for nothing. Nothing except my honesty, my openness and my love. I'd give those to her regardless.
I have no church of stone, no walls to close me in. Only this temple of flesh and bone that allows me my freedom.
I don't get down on my knees and send words of thanks or remorse to a deaf sky. I place my lips upon silk and offer my supplication. Extending promises of my compliance though she knows me well enough to know that I will invariably come to her later filled with contrition for some small sin.
She is my destiny, my Holy Land. Every dogma I need is written in the feel of every caress, the appearance of every smile she sends my way.
I need no God, not when I have an entity that exceeds even that status.
She is my Rapture, my salvation; my eternity.
She is my Savior.
And I, I am but a lowly worshiper that walks a pilgrimage each day to lie at her feet in silent adoration until she grants me entrance to her hallowed sanctuary.
If I am wrong and there is a God I hope the afterlife is as sweet as my Heaven on Earth.
THE END
