You Are My Favorite Bandit

I am most definitely a fault rippling through the seams of creation; an unintended blunder, a fluke. An extraterrestrial bandit blowing in through the back alleys of the cosmos, a typo in the gospels of angels; the thorn in Jesus’ side.

I am a disheveled attempt at humanity and I can only ever offer a caricature of affection. I am heaven’s sheepish, inarticulate bastard and hell’s most concise disciple.

My palms are weathered and my heart is an architectural failure, but of all of these confessions, there is worse still. Of all my existential treachery, I must confess to have also been an unabashed thief.

I bottle up the brightness from a green summer’s day and hoard the purity of a long awaited rainfall. I pluck stars out of your night sky and hide them beneath my tongue. But please know I do not keep these treasures for my own.

I lend him light when darkness is all he can dream of, lend him innocence when he cannot forgive himself and speak to him of everlasting starlight when all he can see is his dirty, shaking hands, his head hanging low, praying for the earth to swallow him whole.

In all my travels, there had never been one so unprecedented as he. In all things he is given, he returns so magnificently. In his eyes, he burns abducted sunbeams like fuel in a lantern for the lost. In drought, he returns embezzled rainfall in the form of joyful tears with laughter as his thunder; a misaligned smile as his lightning. In hijacked constellations, he is connection the dots and creating his own universes, discovering his own raptured infinities and banishing all limitations.

and I, witness to all of his wonder, his very own bandit, I am growing in the light of his warmth into something much more significant that I thought imaginable. I am conceiving my own destiny and for the first time I am permitting myself to be a creature of my own creation; merely and beautiful human. I have been both a blind scholar and an enlightened fool but now I am actually seeing. My heart is beating steadily to the strange song of a wild man and I am partial to its composer; my own elysium, my sanctuary.

And herein lies my greatest confession of all, the rusted seed of the truth I have finally planted; I am not at all sorry for any of this.




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