On the Soul’s Strength

Running a cult isn’t fun if nobody wants to leave.

He told us that. He told everybody in the cult. He always called it “the cult” not because it wasn’t one but because he didn’t care to hide it. We all wanted to leave.

We all stayed.

It was love, it was need, it was money, it was fear; it was things there are no words for. He built for each one of us a cage with our insightful suggestions and enthusiastic help. Not two of them are similar. He thought himself an artist, after all. Perhaps he was.

We remain in the cult. We all want to leave. It’s been years since we killed him.