God is silent. Even as I scream my prayers into the heavens, only darkness answers. His silence coats my veins in wax and seals away my spirit. If the number of my sins rival the stars, why will he not count them? He is silent. If I am to be bound by wax it will be by my own crest - I refuse to sacrifice my own feeling for the will of a silent God.
Perhaps my prayers can’t be answered. Perhaps I am to be content in His image.
I wish I were angry. Anger gives you purpose, direction. But I know it would be hollow rage, empty and devouring. I am not angry. And I will not be empty. Anger for the sake of anger is cowardice in the guise of righteousness. But what is bravery? How am I brave for existing? Why do I exist like this? One day I will not hate every sinew and synapse in my broken body, and that will be brave. But it is impossible to speak in certainties in these uncertain times. Cowardice is mythic, and malleable. I will exist in my own image. I will feel every emotion wholly and unabashedly. Despite the clamour of cynicism and the clanging swords of wrath, despite the black knights of apathy raising their shields against my stars, I will not be empty. I will be a rich tapestry of experience, I will weave together the myth of self, and I will be whatever I am. God knows who that is.