False Prophet

False Prophet, Chapter 9: The Helium Road

The incomplete world where gravel and glass are in distance from further than forever ago. I’ve been in the dry heat for hours… too many chemicals pulsing through my body. I’m sinking under the lines. Striking the first thing seen. Diluting the water within. Put coal in my bowels and cook my brain. The infinite shards of glass cut my soles and then melt into my skin like the asteroids that came before. The rings of blood around my ankles.

The smell of dust and salt without water. The incomplete messages on the chalk board that won’t exist in front of me. How I will have my periods of nothingness done in a timely manner. A wasteland of suburbs where the dirt should be. I see old men waiting alone in the wilderness and wonder if they’re evil. I have pity for the rapists and life-takers. Then my love for humans mysteriously sprouts up once again. Then I free myself from my own self.

The planet wobbles on its axis while men in suits race by us. Everything is shaking with a constant hunger for completeness. The ship on a maiden voyage rocking back and forth will know how to stay afloat. Until it sinks. When I was young I yearned for penitence. I went to confession and he told me it was okay. He asked if I could trust that the church would not fall on top of me. I figured I could trust the stones and wood. He said faith in God is like having faith in the building not crushing you. I can put faith in trees and the Earth for most of the time, but God is made up of men and violent water, which I could not bear to trust for the majority of my short existence. I’m sorry, sad, lonely man but I cannot put faith in a masked shape with blood caked upon its skin and pouring from its clenched fists. I cannot have the love for little children guided by shepherds. Innocence tricked me into believing in dreadful horrors when I was a little child.

And so the pathway to the sky unfolded in my eye once the priest went behind the curtain; the road built with fragile, multicolored balloons. I will die over and over and under again on that pathway. Once I reach suborbital space I won’t be satisfied. We must keep him frozen in cryogenic sleep. Dreaming of mice made of metal, and knowing there is no praying in the vacuum of nothingness.