Critical Mass

He’d had his fill of the Abrahamic god in all its forms by the age of 8.  Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah, the triple headed single god was long consumed by his voracious appetite for belief.  The Awakened One, the his ancestors, totems, dreaming all too within him, firmly held in his mind. 

Truly a believer. 

He worshipped no god before him but all he others in equal portions.  His head filled as he discovered the dead gods.  The Aesthir, Olympia.  The dead gods half forgotten and mused by academics.  He praised their name in love and fear like no man before or after.

The Peacock King, the anima of all, demiurge and primal force.  Titans and Demons, ghosts and Loas.  Half held souls,  fake gods praised and worshipped.  The mountain was no longer a mountain, and yet it was a mountain once again. 

The books piled high – a shrine to all and none. From the Alpha to the Omega and back again.  His mind fed on gods and spirits, and with each, his faith grew stronger the more he gave himself to them.

He praised and worshipped proto-gods.  Waves of beleif limited by observation and deduction – Diana the huntress and people’s princess – the market tested, committee built icons of Ronald and Mickey lay before him next to the icons of Mary and Paul,  and he bowed down before them all.  His faith never tired, never faltered, never failed and was never sated. He was the sound of one hand clapping while the other held a contoured bottle of the Real Thing. His faith fractured and spintered, multiplied and spread. 

He was the fisher of gods, the shepherd of the demiurge and keeper of pantheons – machina ex deus.

And then there was no more. 

Almost infinite is not infinite enough when there is nothing more to believe in.


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