Foreign

He knows all the foreigners give him weird looks when he lifts his eyes to the sky instead of looking down at a statue’s feet, but he just doesn’t see the reasoning behind that fashion. Firstly, it’s much more convenient for him, because he can worship anywhere and everywhere he chooses to, and secondly, he saves a lot of money by not having to make so many statues out of gold and silver. (Of course, the temple he’s planning to build will be mostly made of pure gold, but at least it will have much more practical use.)

He can’t see the appeal behind having a metal object sitting enshrined in his home, always fixed in the same position, the same posture, and the same emptiness. It’s strange, because it seems to be trying to offer something it can’t give, then pretend that nothingness is the best thing to be found in life.

He sees the statue’s motionless eyes, its speechless mouth and its unmoving hands and feet, and wonders where the definition of “unchanging” had gone wrong.

In his mind, the idol is more faceless than his god, because its blank expression can’t hold a candle to his wildest imaginations.

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