Dear G-d.

Dear G-d.

I have always believed You are there. Here. Everywhere.

Who You are, has been defined by the husks that surround You.

You put them there. You twisted the focus to such a monumental blur on our eyes and ears and tiny brains so that occasionally we see a glimmer. Or not. Maybe many miss the glimmer. You are the One that didn’t flash it for them. Or caused the blur of their perception to be too severe. And they continue from birth to death regardless. Some doing holy things, which they would call their own invention.

I have always noticed the glimmer.

I was told what it was, from my birth. Ten and a half years later, I realized it didn’t add up. It was not my perception of the glimmer that they described. I had to push past their threats that there was a sword at my throat and a fire under my feet because I didn’t accept their husk.

I told you clearly: “I don’t know Who You are. I can’t say You aren’t there. But I don’t know what to do about You. I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know what You mean.”

The easiest person to try and find was me. I felt I had material to work with. Flesh, blood, brain buzzing at a million miles an hour. You couldn’t be an asshole, surely? I stepped out. It was a mixed bag. But I chose my steps for the first time in my life.

However, the indoctrination of those false husks had been severe, it colored my perception anyway. But I persisted in spending the years stripping them. I told You I didn’t know what to do – You had to guide me.

But silence. And loud noise buzzing in my skull. I assume it is all part of the blur You put there to obscure Yourself. I am guessing.

A human body I sat in. With longing and yearning and hunger. I dived into a sea of music. Loud music. It put the buzzing in my mind into a rhythm. Like arms that held it.

I found my first love. But perceptions tattooed into my subconscious made me run from him. I can’t get behind his skull. I don’t know if it was mutual. But he is a king that keeps coming back to an internal throne, when others have abandoned it. He is someone else’s living king now. But his ghost always returns, when others reject me. I can’t shake him off. Maybe he’s the gold standard.
I remained alone. My next love ran hot and cold. Eventually it was a frozen tundra. The music and the buzzing dancing me through each trek that is day and night surviving on the planet. I didn’t understand these humans. I didn’t understand You. Everyone shouting loudly. Everyone threatens a fire under your feet if you don’t believe them.

Found the spider. Allowed myself to stare into his eyes long enough to go under a spell. I was so alone. He promised whatever it would take, just to get me to climb onto his knotted sticky web.
His web stretched over an open and spitting volcano. Brought his children into the world.

And I cried out to You. DESPERATE.


Found the people who had spoke of You in ancient times. On paper, there is no definition of You. On paper, it is forbidden to define You. In practice, however, You are defined loudly. Your definitions are shouted, and the fire is put under Your feet. All humans seem the same. Regardless what’s on paper.

But I clung to this ancient people, who seemed to hold the key to the clearest perception of You: that we can’t actually have one.

The spider ate himself. The web swung down into the volcano, we held on by a thread.

No one can see we are climbing out. The lava lashing at our feet. They hold torches at the mouth of the volcano. Their fire. They point their fire at our hair.

G-d. I don’t know Who and What You are. I don’t know how to interact with Your humans. My fellow humans. They set each other on fire.

Dear G-d.

I don’t know what to do when I get up off this chair.

Surrounded by lava and fire. It is leaving scorch marks on my heart and mind.

As a little girl of 6 I screamed out to you in fear of the fire. How I was told you had put me on a fine line, a knife’s edge, surrounded by flames. I was petrified I would become distracted from keeping my eye on Your glimmer, and be lost.

I am still that little girl. I am holding onto the edge of that knife, like it is the edge of a cliff. My fingers hurt, they sting with blood.

I need to climb back on the knife and keep walking.

I don’t know how.

You stay silent.

And the people shout, and point their fiery torches at my face.

I want and long and wish to love and serve. But I’m tired, hanging here on the edge. Love seems to only come if you allow yourself to stand over someone’s raging burning fire. Maybe that isn’t love. I don’t know.

I don’t know anything. I don’t know what You want. I never have.

And I don’t know how to talk to You anymore. I get the impression it is inadequate and meaningless. I could be wrong.

I don’t know.

And I think about how I have failed you because I don’t know how to not be tired.




Note: ONLY sensitive comments will be approved.