The God Ship

I hold your lives like a jar, or a cardboard box beneath the stairs. You fill me with stories, with love. Unspeakable love you keep hidden, even from (especially from,) each other. You are all so silly in that way. You keep things buried underneath, but I’ve seen you. Nervous fumbling in the glow of a television screen. Labored breathing. Explosions like little deaths in the bedroom.

And then I’ve heard the lying – fibs and little whites. “I’m sorry.” “Yes.” “No.” “I love you.” And the heavier. “I didn’t.” “I wouldn’t.” “I love you.” Siblings and friends and parents and lovers do not hear everything. They do not get to get at the heart of the matter. I do, and for this I feel sorry for you all.

I wear your photographs and posters and swatches of color like a uniform. My ceremonial dress. You peel and scrape and gut, rebuild off of and on top of me. But I don’t complain...not so much as a groan. Because I am one of meaning. Of reason. The God Ship. I could be your house, and I can be your home – at least for a little while. And then it’s time to leave. And then it’s time to move on and empty me out. Keep me as a memory, for better or for worse.

You cannot forget me. I am The Blackmailer. I am The Invisible Man. I am the one who could destroy your world or improve it. Cut me a mouth where the front door used to be and I will tell you everything I know, everything you think you kept secret. And you will be amazed at what I know, at what you do not.

How could I have missed this?
I do not know.

I must have been blind.
You were only in the dark.

You knew what you needed to, and this is enough. That is not your role – to know everything. The meaning of everything. I am an object – you have assigned me “shelter.” But I am an object. I cannot make such distinctions. I am Shelter. I am Observer. Objects, by their very nature, exist. But what you do with them is the true test. The meaning gives them power.