This Room Is a Crypt

Everywhere: under every rug, behind every suitcase and box, there are reminders.

The safe box that it's been locked up in for six months now; the bag that it came home in; the paper I'm writing on -> which was where you left the note that I found. You were here when I found it, and you're here right now.

35 minutes away, and right behind me.

Tears won't come, because I forgot how to cry years ago. No, I think I remember, but maybe I'm just dry. All used up. Empty. There were so many spent on her, that I didn't have any left for you. Instead, I write.

Every blot of Sharpie ink is five tears I should have cried with you.

5 - Five for the time God stopped talking to you.
5 - Five for when He stopped talking to me.
10-Ten for when He died.
25 for when you somehow brought Him back from Hell, resurrected His almighty Ass, and I still couldn't hear Him.

Wouldn't it be funny if I did actually hear Him? Right now, whilst scribbling a letter to no one, to commemorate the passing of a relationship, while seated at a desk built by the grandfather who so made me want to hear God the way he did?!

/He's dead, too\


All of the "old guard" is passing. Everyone who knows how to hear Him is becoming impossible for me to understand anymore. All I'm left with is everything. Everything that reminds me of all the people who have passed out of my life.

Maybe we humans crave stability and permanence because it's the one thing we can never have without immediately dying a slow and painful death.

I remember learning in Sunday school that anyone who looked upon the face of God would die.

I guess God is stability and permanence.
I guess God moved to the safety of the suburbs.
He must have filled His house up with nice sofas, fancy TV's, and a beautifully ornate mirror...

...that He looked into for the first time in all of eternity...


*poof*