Where we’re at is forty thousand feet above the earth. Cruising altitude. Where you’re free to roam the cabin. Where we’re at is on a commercial jetliner. Where we’re at is the beginning of the story. Where we’re at is the part where you’re pulled in, unaware that once I have you, you’re never able to leave. This is a trap and writers use it all the time. Now that you’re invested, you’re mine and I can do whatever I want to you without you even knowing.
Total fucking control.
If I wanted to, say, transport you somewhere else, I could.
Where we’re at is the top of Mount Everest.
If I wanted to, I don’t know, create a disaster to afflict the world, simple.
Enter: AIDS or SARS or SIDS.
Basically, what I’m saying is that I am God and God may not be all that great.
We’re still in the jetliner and we’re still cruising at forty thousand feet. Coach. Surrounded by a mob of fucking ingrates. They don’t realize who I am. Sure, a lot of people suffer from delusions of grandeur, people claiming to be God or Buddha or Odin or some other deity, but I swear to you that I am Him.
If I wanted to do anything to you, I could, I just don’t want to.
The problem is, no matter what I do to prove myself to you, I’ll remain just another one of those parasites who claim to be a greater power and you’ll continue to live in disbelief that there even is a greater power. Even if I, let’s say, cure your blindness or paralysis, you’d still deny me. Everybody is such a fucking Peter these days.
So, instead of trying to pull off some big miracle or disaster or whatever, I’m going to save my energy. I’m going to sit in seat 17A, window seat, and watch the patchwork of farms and country pass underneath. Instead of trying to prove myself, I’m just going to mind my own business. To answer your question, Joan Osborne, if I was one of you, you’d never know because you’d never want to know. You’d be too wrapped up in your own self worth and your own fears and your own world to ever truly accept me.
Where we’re at is five miles from losing all hope of ever being wanted. Ten miles from wanting to just go home. Twenty miles above self-loathing and losing altitude fast.
God, what a shame.
I know, I know, I said I was fine without you but, not to sound like such an old man, but back in my day, people feared me. People spent their days listening to any idiot who screamed with a ‘message’ from me because they didn’t want to be damned to Hell as insubordinates. People formed entire civilizations under my name, your own kids pledging their allegiance to the flag under my name. Can you imagine how depressing it is to be so forgotten in a world where you’re everywhere?
Where we’re at is reluctant realization.
Maybe I’ll never be happy no matter where I’m at. Maybe I’ll just float from here to there, always finding people who refuse to acknowledge my existence. People who claim to have always been Atheist, even though they’re confirmation name is Paul or Matthew or Mark or Mary. They’ve never been inflicted with religion, even though they were bathed in my water and ate my son’s flesh and drank his blood. God, how embarrassing.
You’re all so sure of yourselves. Who am I to change your mind. You’re all going to go to Hell anyways.
Where we’re at is forty thousand feet above Earth’s surface, making empty threats and loaded gun promises. I really am a jealous and selfish god.
Maybe I should just give up on all of you. Maybe I should just say, “God, you’ve lost them, now move on,” and be done with it. Find a new civilization to rule over. But everyone knows how hard breaking up is.
Where we’re at is realizing that, no matter how easy it is for you to forget about me, it’s impossible for me to move on and I’m so, so sorry for that. I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop pestering you. Sure, I have followers. I have people who stand on street corners, yelling for you to repent and that the end is coming, but even I know how annoying they are.
Maybe I should just highjack this plane and crash it into the ocean under my name. Can you imagine those headlines?
Man Claiming To Be God Highjacks And Crashes Plane
God, how miserable.
The truth is, I’m doomed to live a lonely life and I need to get used to that. And eventually I will.
Where we’re at is giving ourselves false hope and pretending to grow up.
If I wanted to convince you that I wasn’t some delusional lunatic, I could. This is a trap and writers use it all the time. The thing is, I’m lazy. I’m lazy and, honestly, I kind of don’t care anymore. Believe in what you want to believe in, I’m not the one who’s going to spend an eternity next to fire and brimstone.