On a small town street corner, a woman in a long skirt, ponytail swaying past her hips, stands holding a sign high above her head. "Prepare to meet thy God," it reads. If she considers herself prepared, it is only because she does not know the truth. She believes in a god who loved her enough to die for her sins, and then rose from the dead. She has no proof, only faith in his love, and in his wrath for those who fail to accept him. A human god, invented by human minds. The true God died for no one, though many may die for Him. He lies as if dead, waiting to rise and awaken the others of His kind. Even the memory of my dreams of Him makes me ill, walks me along the ledge of my sanity.
He dreams of us, even as we dream of Him. The dead do not dream, and all dreamers must wake. I have had too many dreams to count. I try not to think of them, but I cannot forget. Others who have seen Him as I have - a vague impression in a sleep-addled brain - will tell the same story. It is no ordinary nightmare. There is a sunken city, and something that stands miles high, and yet it moves like flesh and blood. A rustle of leathery wing, a set of massive claws. How small I am beside those claws. And His eyes. The almighty indifference held without those eyes... As a child I sometimes pulled the wings off flies because it amused me, and sometimes I let them be. Now, I am the one waiting for a cruel and indifferent Master to decide my fate.
When my dreams first came, I tried to warn anyone who would listen. They drugged me; they locked me away. I learned to stay silent, unless I perceived that someone was truly ready to listen. Most are not. I am not mad, but most cannot see that. They do not feel Him waiting beneath the waves; they do not see His dreams, and so I am too frightening to be believed. Somewhere in their minds, they must know the truth. How can they not? Who has not looked out at the ocean, or up at the night sky, and realized how very tiny we are? How short, how pointless our lives are in this vast universe? We are the center of nothing. The universe exists for Him, and His kind, not for us; we are incidental. I am not mad. My eyes are open, while theirs are shut.
When the stars will align, He will call. No deity from the myths of man will come to save us, and far too late they will see that I am not mad. In His house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming. How much longer can He sleep?
So yes, prepare to meet thy God. He is great. He is terrible. He will be waking soon.
Disclaimer: I'm not H.P. Lovecraft.