The Last Prayer for the God of Unfinished Sentences

Fiction

Stop staring. It is unsightly. You have spent forty years cataloging my decline; the least you can do is be quiet for the finale. Do not mistake this for a tragedy. There is no poetry in a clerical error. I was never a deity of mystery or profound silence. I was a logistical necessity. Someone had to manage the overflow. The thoughts that slipped through the cracks of the Logos. The half-formed wishes. The 'I just wanted to say' that never reached the 'say'. It was a tedious assignment. No benefits. No temples. I had no worshippers, only people who forgot why they walked into a room. And then there is you. The last one. You found my name in a moldy ledger in the basement of a library that burned down in the third century. How efficient. You spent your life trying to reconstruct a syllabus for a class that never started. Look at this attic. Look at these papers. Thousands of them, scattered like dead leaves. You thought you were preserving me. You were simply creating more work. A warehouse of broken glass. Every page ends in a comma or a smudge of ink. It is a bureaucratic nightmare. I am not sad. Sadness requires a completed arc, a resolution. I am simply inconvenienced. The silence is becoming absolute. The paperwork is finally catching up to me. I suppose I should thank you for the effort, though your methodology was flawed. You focused too much on the nouns. You ignored the ellipses. Now, close your eyes. Let the sentence end. Or better yet, let it just...