The Stirring of Dust and Divinium
They told me I was made in the image of God.
And I believed them.
They told me I’d let The Devil in.
And I believed them.
They told me to ask God to remake my soul. That He would fix the broken parts of me.
And I believed them.
I begged, pleaded, bargained. I fell and fell again upon knees callused and bruised. And my soul waited.
But now I’ve forgotten how to pray.
And I believe them no more.
I am not of God.
Nor of devils.
I know not of what I am.
But if I have a maker, if someone whittled these bones of ash and dust and stretched this skin of clay upon them, I wonder at their cruelty. For they crafted my soul differently. Not of ash, nor of dust, nor of clay.
Everyone could see that my soul was of something else. They told me it was wretched. Unnatural. And I believed them.
Until you told me it was beautiful.
And now I know not what I believe. But of one thing I am certain. That my soul is of divinium.
For it stirred to life when you were near. It sparked, glowed, vibrated, sung. It danced within its cage of ordinary flesh and bone, vying for release. It bid me love you with all the fearless and free, all the careless and bold in me. It bid me love you in every way but ordinary. It bid me love you.
And now it rests within me, cold and dull and lifeless again, buried beneath a heart that won’t stop beating, lungs that still gasp for air. The flesh of me goes on. But my soul lies in wait. Not for salvation. Not to be made new. It no longer cares whether it is wretched or beautiful, saved or damned, broken or whole.
It cares for one thing only, waits for one thing only. For you to draw near again. To stir it from its sleeping. It waits to sing once more.