if there were many gods, mine would be a storyteller
with massively long arms and legs, sitting in front of a
campfire
he wouldn't have a big body but his arms could reach out and
gesture over the flames, and his knees would be up by his ears. His arms and
legs would move like they had a momentum to them. He would begin it, but his
limbs would never stop quickly, only slowly and gradually, or turn and shift.
There was a gradual never quite still, never moving fast ness to him. He seemed
small, average, but those arms, they were not him, they were the strange thing
with a mind of their own, wise, unable to speak words, but able to somehow draw
on the air, and whatever you think you know about what he’s telling you, is
true, but it’s only a piece of the whole, torn corners of a massive tapestry.
But don’t worry, it’s weathered and worn, and offers them freely. Those hands
wave over the fire and the tapestry grows.
