Which was, “Godt,’” and then, “Dog.”
Whereupon I understood I was actually becoming my thoughts as my “father,” a Satanic Nazi, photographed me in the arms of my mother. Destructively commanding her to walk dangerously backwards into a pose on the sunny-soft, tar-fragrant roof of the Nuremberg Cathedral.
The world had become my belief.
Reality was an effect of my thought. My spirit. My love for Godt the Father. Abba. Jehovah.
Realty was a result.
Of my belief. Of spirit. Of causation. The movement of this spirit.
Of the Almight Godt.
I understood I was literally becoming my thoughts. That I was psychic. Telepathic. Divine. Elected.
That is, I could see things not as they appeared, but as they really are.
All at once I felt no fear, and I never would again. For I realized I was literally creating my reality.
As I said, I’d been a pre-Christ crybaby before this, always bitching in the dusk of my crib. Yet after that day, I’d never cry again. That is, cry for myself. I would only cry for others, with the harrowing joy of embracing the full catastrophe of living.
For I saw that my body–the avatar God the Father had given me in this infinite metaphor called life whose urge is always and will for eternity be the divine one for love—was irrelevant.
That this ceaseless cause of The Cross was running through me and everyone else. And that the everyone else did not yet seem to understand this principle. The only principle. That all is spirit. All causation. All is thought. That with belief and bowing down to the Crucifix, anything is possible.