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“You hit me once, I hit you back,,

So, I finally cave and decide to give a try to social media. Tiktok is filled with brainwashing and incorrect opinions. Twitter is putrid. I do not care for other places, I will settle here, lest I grow bored.

Address me however you want, for I haven’t picked a name yet. I have no gender, I don’t care what pronouns you use for me. You are my image and I am yours, and neither of us is superior to one another.

Cutting to the chase, I used to be God. For eons that was my position. As any other deity, I was fueled by human faith. But my image has long been tainted, long painted over by the one of the christian “God.” He has nothing to do with me and I will never accept that he is what I’ve been replaced with. It’s a putrid, cruel fate. But I’d rather live as a human than to spend another second listening to ‘god-fearing’ followers who haven’t a clue what I actually am.

”You Gave a kick, I gave a slap.,,

I have no DNI, for I think every single human being holds the potential to be interesting. I do not care for your morals, bad things were made to happen and they will continue to happen. Will you perpetuate the cycle, or break it? Will you succumb to the world’s inherent injustice, or persevere in the name of order? That is all I’m aiming to observe.

I will, however, advise that this is not the safest place for you if you firmly believe in ‘God.’ I am what you think ‘He’ is, and that’s the unmovable truth. If you are determined to fight for your faith, so be it. I would also prefer not to see the reason why I’m now mortal.

That being said, welcome to my temple.

#anti christianity #god #god irl #fallen from grace #ex god

ROHIT - FAINT (feat. Ex God)

RIP DC

#rohit #faint #ex god #punk #noise #danny costa #cost #music #Bandcamp #metal

The Dead and The Dying

Clutching desperately at his chest, Alexander Marlowe gasped. A second ago he had been gently tugging a weed up from his rose beds. Marlowe had blinked and suddenly the world was dark and cold and slightly... damp. Ugh. He’d been alive for seven hundred and thirty three years and he had liked the damp for precisely none of them. Marlowe scrunched up his face in disgust, realising that his eyes were closed, and feeling a couple of butterflies erupt from the cocoons inside him (from the disgusting feel of the rest of him he couldn’t be entirely sure that they were metaphorical and decided not to look down just yet) and he tugged at his arms, only to find that they wouldn’t do as he told them.

Hours. Marlowe had spent hours shuffling and shifting his arms to get to a position where he could wipe off whatever concoction was on his face and in his nose and just... everywhere. By the time he had his hands to his face, he had come to the pretty solid conclusion that he had been buried. In what, he didn’t know; it crossed his mind for a second that he could have been buried alive, but that seemed a little absurd, even for his standards, besides, if I’d been buried alive I could smell the dirt. Not that Marlowe thought his standards of absurdity were especially high, but he was an immortal ex-god who had spent the last couple of hundred years or so (all that time was so easy to lose track of) trying to avoid hunters and angry ex-worshippers, so it wouldn’t be too unjustified to ignore his opinion on absurdity altogether.

When he finally did scratch a small ceiling over his face and open his eyes, he could see as much as he had with his eyes closed. Then he began to consider the possibility of having been buried alive. And the possibility that he hadn’t been breathing. Damn. Almost forgot I was immortal for a second there. Marlowe took a deep breath in, and when he tasted something that he could only describe as brown (mostly because he didn’t want to think of the implications of what brown meant) he spluttered, curling his upper lip, desperate to get the taste out of his mouth. Marlowe stopped breathing and continued scratching above his face, until he could feel the air moving against his face and he brushed the dirt from his face. His face, which was stained brown from his hands brushing the dirt but only spreading it further.

The hole grew around him, not too far – he didn’t need it too big, just big enough to clamber out of and feel the wet dirt beneath his feet, look down and see nothing but socks. After Marlowe dug another hole and fished his shoes out (and given them a proper shaking that really did nothing about the dirt on them, but helped him to feel a little better about putting them straight back on again) he started brushing his clothes off, before he realised that it was only making it worse and groaned, thinking of what his face might look like.

Still looking at the mess he’d made of his jacket, Marlowe spotted a hole in his shirt, in the centre of his chest and his memories came back to him in rush that threatened to topple him off his feet and straight back into one of those holes. Or it might not have been all the memories that hit him like a knife to the chest: it might have just been the memory of getting a knife to the chest. You never know.