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Religion ( or just me babbling, it gets off track:)

Religion

In the early days of humans, they had gods. From the very beginning of time. It meant to people what they wanted it to. It was unique to each culture but there just the same.

But in my opinion, why follow one unified religion? I want something to believe in, to give me hope. Something sacred to me. But what does that for me is different from the world. So, here I go, here is my religion. My religion is the forest, the rough tree bark, and my fingers tracing the labyrinthine engravings as I sit on the branch, the sun brushing its fingers across my cheeks. My religion is the soft pink flush of our palms intertwined as we walk, pure, innocent, untainted. my religion is the soft yellow lighting kissing every surface of my room, from the piles of clothes on my floor to the covers on my bed to the shelves carrying my numerous notebooks journals, and sketchbooks

my religion is the rain, crystal beads falling from the heavens, compiling into puddles, miniature oceans pleading for you to come splash and splatter your skirt

my religion is creating, and being consumed with a purpose, passionate brushstroke, furious typing, careful sketching, lyrics, compositions, and concepts crowding my mind. My religion is peace, solitude, and introspection, those stolen ephemeral moments spent alone,  and just being, or coming up with my own philosophies, and theories concerning my behaviors, tendencies, and character. My religion is girlhood. Or at least the way I view it. It is a visceral, cunning thing, and yet so beautiful. The juxtaposition of the diaphanous haze that clouds it, and the sharp, cutting experiences. From yearning for the moon, and to howl wildly under it, to collecting shimmering trinkets, and making everything pleasant. But there's also the other aspect. How the anguish and pain writhe inside me, wanting it to crawl up my throat and tumble out of my mouth, a scream bursting from my lips. Longing to be cherished and loved as a whole complete person, not an object of pleasure. But trying to cover it up with concealer, ribbons, and kindness. In the end, how you can cover up your skin and your hair, and all of your self-proclaimed hideousness, but you can’t cover who you are. You can’t stamp down your soul, at least not without losing it. 

And my religion is my childhood. How it was so exceptionally lovely and enlightened. Yet at the same time dark, misunderstood, and shattered. How one day my mother would be making me a beautiful birthday cake, and the next dragging me down the stairs, as I stumble tears blurring my vision, spilling over my face. How one day my father would be watching a movie with me, and the next yelling in my face, and shaking my shoulders. They didn’t know how to handle me. And my child self thought that I was a monster. That there was one inside me and it would one day claw open the soft skin of my stomach and burst out of me, leaving the “sweet version” as my parents called it, an empty shell. And I would claw at my face, screaming that I hated myself. But I also played with my sisters, making up stories of fairy dust and rose petals, aliens, and goblins. And we would walk downtown to buy ice cream and go on hikes in the forest. my religion is everything that makes up me. it is the very essence of my being.