Sunday Morning
It started on a Sunday morning.
That feeling, that slow-burning feeling. The emotion that — depending on how the next 24 hours went — would either encapsulate the seats of seraphim or the iron-clad bars of hell.
I breathed. An action of trying to feed my body, nurture the only thing I was capable of controlling, of feeding, of growing. I breathed and as the oxygen filled my brain, I felt it grow too. That’s the thing about toxicity — it feeds off the good.
There was a long list of things I had to do today — buy some groceries, get another extension, and most importantly but least desirable — check that he was okay. The sick leading the sick, the blind leading the blind, the barely capable leading the completely incapacitated.
There was a knock on the door, I answered it.
The dog's bowl was empty, I filled it.
My pot plant looked dry, I watered it.
And all this time I waited. I waited and watched. My very eye sockets almost turned around to catch a glimpse of the internal. The internal that would so greatly affect the external.
The light from my window refracted. Reflecting a million possibilities and a million things I was capable of. I just hadn’t known it until now. I didn’t have to go to the grocery store, I could do something more meaningful. Something that would once and for all show the world what I was truly capable of. I could help the world. I could lead the people. I could help the world.
“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”. The two percent of my brain that was aware of reality began to plead that some higher being would listen, hear me, and once and for all silence the voice in my head that was telling me that I was in fact it.
“Oh God! Oh God!”… I am God.
“Oh heaven, oh Mary”… I am in heaven. I was born of Mary
“Lexapro! Degranol! Lithium!”…I was too much of a God for them to handle. They were trying to silence my powers, mute my greatness with things meant for the truly unwell.
I had to see him today. I had to heal him. I was a God, he was just sick
