If I had a near-death experience, I think I'd tell everyone that God somewhat resembles Elton John, and he has a message for all of us: it's lonely out in space.
For a person that writes so much about love, I know shit all about it. But what I do know is that love feels a lot like dying without being dead. It's a flashing pain that lights up your whole body and your whole head. The first time those three words come from their mouth it sounds like angel harps and in the times when you look through the tears drooping off your lashes you swear that ram is Isaac because you know you can't fear and love God simultaneously.
It’s a Thursday night. You yank open the door and I’m watching you introduce yourself but I’m not looking at your mouth or the words coming out, instead I’m focussed all at once on your sunburned cheeks and your bright hazel eyes and I’ve already chosen you. Suddenly I am wondering what it’s like to kiss you. Suddenly I want to be drunk.
I had a dream once where I woke up in the middle of a county fair with popcorn stuck to my face and dirt on my shoes. The grounds were freshly abandoned. I played the games until I amassed a large collection of stuffed animals, and then I took a nap on the merry go round. There I finally understood that no one truly believes in anything; we’re all just afraid.
It’s a Saturday morning. We take coffee the same way: black, or a splash of milk, but never any sugar.
For awhile I believed that I had to give answers when they asked me questions. I thought that everything that can be said can also be explained. “I love you” is a physics problem: what goes up must come down. But that’s the thing about the space between knowing and believing in God: when they finally give me the guillotine, and there’s no time to think beyond the chemical reactions, I still choose you.
For a person that writes so much about love, I know shit all about it. But what I do know is that love feels a lot like dying without being dead. It's a flashing pain that lights up your whole body and your whole head. The first time those three words come from their mouth it sounds like angel harps and in the times when you look through the tears drooping off your lashes you swear that ram is Isaac because you know you can't fear and love God simultaneously.
It’s a Thursday night. You yank open the door and I’m watching you introduce yourself but I’m not looking at your mouth or the words coming out, instead I’m focussed all at once on your sunburned cheeks and your bright hazel eyes and I’ve already chosen you. Suddenly I am wondering what it’s like to kiss you. Suddenly I want to be drunk.
I had a dream once where I woke up in the middle of a county fair with popcorn stuck to my face and dirt on my shoes. The grounds were freshly abandoned. I played the games until I amassed a large collection of stuffed animals, and then I took a nap on the merry go round. There I finally understood that no one truly believes in anything; we’re all just afraid.
It’s a Saturday morning. We take coffee the same way: black, or a splash of milk, but never any sugar.
For awhile I believed that I had to give answers when they asked me questions. I thought that everything that can be said can also be explained. “I love you” is a physics problem: what goes up must come down. But that’s the thing about the space between knowing and believing in God: when they finally give me the guillotine, and there’s no time to think beyond the chemical reactions, I still choose you.
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