[don't ever ask your love of me.]
God has never done anything for us, but we all pray to him regardless. Night and day. Over and over again. Like a kid begging his deadbeat dad to be there, for one game. To notice one fucking time. To give him just one hug. One chance. Begging for him. To be a father. That’s why we invented religion anyway, because we’re all afraid of what it’s like to not have one. God is nothing more than the distant, cold idea of a father, for those who’ve lost their own. That’s why we cry out to him even though he isn’t there, and he hasn’t answered. (He never will.) He can’t hear us, because God is just an idea. A millennium-long creature of mass hysteria. He’s never been anything more than the memory of your father’s rough hands, his freckled face, and the smell of sawdust.
