I am not Jesus.
I am not Krishna
I am not Allah
I am not Abraham
I am not Buddha
I am me.

I can try to fit it all into their neat little box,
but try is all I can do.
The words I was told to worship,
twisted to fit the day,
misconstrued to fit all time,
have lost their meaning,
turned to myth.
Archaic ideals hold only some truth in this moment.
For do we not judge our present with the eyes of the past?
And so who am I now if not made up from the tattered cloth of time?
I am not dogma.
I am not that.
I am me.
I am now.
I am this very sacred moment.
Filled up, spilling over and pouring down into my shoes.