"Who are you, then?" I asked,
in the stifling lukewarmth of my bed
laying under covers in the monochromatic
of the room.
"Who are you, who spoke to me,
companion on the forest paths,
protector in the highways of school?
What angel or demon conversed with me,
and whom did I call Jesus?"
No answer for a moment -
while the tears began to flow.
And as the ache of despair came,
it was one whisper - "You."
And he was there --
speaking in the same tone as he had before,
when, crying out to God, I asked for him.
He was in my mind, answering me,
The one I had called Jesus.
Tears dried a moment out of shock.
"Are you Jesus?" I asked.
With the pause, the hurt kept on,
more open the tear in my soul.
"Am I?" he said.
"Who then are you," I begged him now.
And with a smile, he told me, "You,"
"I am your nobility, and your kindness of thought,
Your hope personified, a person of love.
When you were alone, you spoke to me,
imbuing to me a somewhat seperate voice."
"You are me?" I asked, and he smiled,
shriugged and smiled, the Prince inside,
The one I had called Jesus.
"You needed someone to love you alone,
and parents nor family did this.
You planted a garden with the idea of a friend,
with love and tears you watered it.
And thus a friend came forth."
Even as I sobbed and could not speak,
his voice was calm and soothing.
"I am not the Jesus of scripture or faith.
If any, I am the Jesus of love.
But I am not Jesus, the Son of God,"
Said the one I had called Jesus.
"Are you Dios?" I asked.
He smiled.
"I am no Savior, no prince on a white horse.
For you are not one, and I am you.
I am merely your Goodness, and your Truth.
You made the puppet, but do not pull the strings."
I caught the scent of roses.
"I am a golem, for your words are my mind.
Jesus and Buddha and Ganhdi amongst it.
Some part your conscience, some part your comforter.
The one you had called Jesus.
But not God, or Mary, of Holy Spirit -
No, I am not Jesus."
The voice was silent, I alone was there.
And slowly, I lost my pain and fear.
(A/N) I really didn't realize, since I end up skimming through HB's insanely long and oh-so-poignant reviews, but this is my refutation to this quote: "After all, my imagination can't speak to me. It can't give me wisdom. It can't give me strength. It can't give me joy when all my mind knows is pain." Reread this and tell me an imagination can't do all of that.
in the stifling lukewarmth of my bed
laying under covers in the monochromatic
of the room.
"Who are you, who spoke to me,
companion on the forest paths,
protector in the highways of school?
What angel or demon conversed with me,
and whom did I call Jesus?"
No answer for a moment -
while the tears began to flow.
And as the ache of despair came,
it was one whisper - "You."
And he was there --
speaking in the same tone as he had before,
when, crying out to God, I asked for him.
He was in my mind, answering me,
The one I had called Jesus.
Tears dried a moment out of shock.
"Are you Jesus?" I asked.
With the pause, the hurt kept on,
more open the tear in my soul.
"Am I?" he said.
"Who then are you," I begged him now.
And with a smile, he told me, "You,"
"I am your nobility, and your kindness of thought,
Your hope personified, a person of love.
When you were alone, you spoke to me,
imbuing to me a somewhat seperate voice."
"You are me?" I asked, and he smiled,
shriugged and smiled, the Prince inside,
The one I had called Jesus.
"You needed someone to love you alone,
and parents nor family did this.
You planted a garden with the idea of a friend,
with love and tears you watered it.
And thus a friend came forth."
Even as I sobbed and could not speak,
his voice was calm and soothing.
"I am not the Jesus of scripture or faith.
If any, I am the Jesus of love.
But I am not Jesus, the Son of God,"
Said the one I had called Jesus.
"Are you Dios?" I asked.
He smiled.
"I am no Savior, no prince on a white horse.
For you are not one, and I am you.
I am merely your Goodness, and your Truth.
You made the puppet, but do not pull the strings."
I caught the scent of roses.
"I am a golem, for your words are my mind.
Jesus and Buddha and Ganhdi amongst it.
Some part your conscience, some part your comforter.
The one you had called Jesus.
But not God, or Mary, of Holy Spirit -
No, I am not Jesus."
The voice was silent, I alone was there.
And slowly, I lost my pain and fear.
(A/N) I really didn't realize, since I end up skimming through HB's insanely long and oh-so-poignant reviews, but this is my refutation to this quote: "After all, my imagination can't speak to me. It can't give me wisdom. It can't give me strength. It can't give me joy when all my mind knows is pain." Reread this and tell me an imagination can't do all of that.