adecentfellow:

Last night I sat outside in a fishbowl filled to the brim with dragons. Every time a knight in shining armour took one through the heart, I thought of a hundred ways to break up with someone I still loved.

Stars are a funny thing; do you know that? There’s almost nothing further away than them, but when the sun’s down all they do is touch you. Someone once told me that stars are God’s fingertips, manicured with fire so bright they’d make Ray Charles scream and cover his eyes, a scream colder than ice, a scream we hear at the end of every September…October…

Winter’s funny, too. Winter’s a comedian. Winter is like a choir of really goofy angels all wearing leather jackets and riding motorcycles across your skin. How can it be that the wind is so cold it burns? Leave the burning to the fire, leave it to the cuts and the scrapes as God drags His claws across your cheeks.

In the wintertime, the stars play tricks on your eyes. They’ve never been brighter, never more looked like what you imagine a forest fire would if you saw it burning on a lake, black as night and bright as day. They’ve never looked more like an old man’s eyes catching yours as you pass his room in the hospital on the way to visit your grandma. You never knew who that old man was, but you swore he knew God.

You swore that, as winter rolled around, that old man was shaking hands goodbye and winking, smiling, tears running down his face in a flow so constant and so warm you expected to see salmon throwing Hail Marys back up into those stars they fell from. But God doesn’t do house calls in winter. He checks out for the season and you come to realise that all those stars aren’t Him pointing down at you saying: “You’ll be okay.”

You realise that all those stars are angels wearing leather jackets, and all those angels are terrible. Every angel is terrible. Every single one. ‘Cause God hates to be the bearer of bad news.

In fact, God’s busy most of the time, and all your prayers go straight to His answering machine. The voice you hear is “I can’t come to the phone right now”. The religious experience is the beep.

(via adecentfellow-deactivated201301)

46 notes #Mat #prose #dang dude

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