Rest Stop

by Nat Cassidy

This is God. The God. The one countless generations of terrified humans once worshipped. The one countless more generations try to pretend they aren’t worshipping now. The God of lightning in the desert. The God of twisted shadows on cave walls. The God of wrath. Of persecution. Of corruption. The God that demands proper nouns and capitalization. The God whose first commandment isn’t kindness or empathy, but THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GOD BEFORE ME. The God of sick jokes. The God of babies born without heads. The God of turtles born having to race to the sea with their first lungful of air. The God of ancient land disputes that turn into genocidal rugby matches. The God of the great cosmic punchline that is mortality

foreknown. Of suns destined to implode. Of nerve endings that refuse to stop reporting pain. Of fathers who die of bowel cancer. Of hearts that won’t stop breaking. Of promising futures and the unbearably slow deflation from pinprick disappointments.

We’re all just biding our time before we break, aren’t we?

This is just the rest stop.

Is this the feeling of being broken? He wonders. Or is it the process of breaking? Is this how it feels to refuse to break? Or is every moment simply its own act of creation? Its own god, too holy for a name?