It’s funny what we think about when we think about god. We think about clouds and lightning bolts. About rivers splitting and the dead walking. We think about justice and order and beauty and wisdom and perfect and perfect and perfect.
That’s funny because he’s not looking for perfect. None of us are.
He’s driven perfect. For accolades and jealous stares. The feeling that he got something right (god would be proud). Eventually white-knuckling perfect to the end of the highway, jumping out of his car at the last minute. Covered in dust, pulling hair from his face, watching it burn on the rocks below.
He wants someone who knows he farts in the bathtub, he drinks gin, he starts fires with no intention of putting them out. Someone who knows he’s as imperfect as the mountains, and they love every inch of him.