God is Dead!

I often wonder if He is just a distant man who left us behind,
an absentee landlord who left the keys in the door
and abandoned the property to slide quietly into decay.
I spent years watching my fellow humans build a cage of words,
painting Him as a tyrant sitting high on a gold-plated throne,
a cosmic dictator who takes pleasure in my submission,
weighing my flaws on an impossible scale.

Religion promised to bring me closer to my brothers,
but instead, it built walls and drew borders in His name.
It divided us, split us into factions of "us" and "them,"
offering a pathetic, abusive bargain: accept the trauma, embrace the tragedy,
say yes to every horror He planned for you,
and a golden cage waits for you in another dimension when you die.
It was a grand lie to keep my eyes glued to a silent sky,
making me forget the value of the dirt right beneath my boots,
while they wrapped chains around my ankles.

But as I stood among the ruins of these ancient dogmas,
a quiet realization finally broke through the dark.
I walked up to the grand altar and found nothing but dust.
The truth settled heavily in my chest:
God is actually dead!
And when I looked for the killer, I did not have to search the cosmos.
We are the ones holding the blade.
We murdered Him the second we tried to box Him into a book,
the moment we turned the infinite into a small, fragile mirror of our own cruelty.

Yet, as the old myths crumble, I do not feel despair.
A strange, hopeful light is beginning to filter through the cracks.
I see now that we only murdered a phantom—
a fragile body of clay and a cruel dictator of our own making.
The true Divine cannot bleed by a human hand,
because it never wore a crown or occupied a single physical shape.

God is not a person waiting to condemn me.
God is the beautiful, blinding essence of existence itself.
I feel it when I sit down to write, the sacred current flowing through my words.
I see it when a painter loses himself in the canvas, birthing light from nothingness.
I hear it in the rustle of the trees, the crash of the ocean, and the rhythm of my own breath.
I trace it in the storm, the decay that feeds new life, the fire burning quietly within every atom.
It is the pulse in the dirt, the current flowing through everything,
alive in everyone and everything.
I have stopped looking up into the empty air,
because the Divine is staring back at me from the mirror,
alive, unbroken, and breathing through everything I touch.