we do not think, therefore we are not.

Three days before I got the call, I was sitting by my bedside. I had not thought of her for a while. As I say this, I realize I am God’s worst liar and His best creation—because to say she left my mind is a sin in itself. She lived in my cutlery, in my printer’s beeps, and in the oil of my hair.
We all try to derive some meaning from our thoughts, and I believe that is the most foolish thing to do.
We cannot think; that is not a right granted to us. We can mimic, format, recognize patterns.
I can talk about the red of the dress I wore on my kindergarten graduation, but I cannot talk about the color of God’s eyes.

Twelve hours before I got the call, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, scrolling my thumbprint away. We, as humans, are least foolish when we occupy what’s left of our consciousness with whatever is the newest sewage water from the man on the top floor.
I plant a flower, and it does not grow.
Maybe it is the water or the soil or the sun (how can I bring it closer?).
If I put up the pot at the science fair, I am no different than the child who picked one up from someone’s lawn.
We watch clock hands turn cartwheels, as all that we work for becomes dripping ink on paper that a businessman will one day use to wipe his nose after losing a deal.
What is progress?

Three hours before I got the call, I was chipping away at my nails, hoping they would resemble the touch of the grief that slipped me by.
We try to create from what we find, because the idea of a God-controlled existence is too daunting (and yet we yearn for it).
How stupid it is.
We do not hold the right to create. We were not meant to touch the stars, and we will not be forgiven.

Thirty minutes before I got the call, I was scum on the sole of a child’s shoe—reading words in a book that are not mine, in a house I do not live in.
There is no use for bruises when they are not accompanied by a gold medal. That is their demise.

The phone rang.
It screeched in my ear.
And the walls were painted with her blood.

Five minutes after I got the call, I sat on the bathroom floor with words I do not have and prayers that cannot bring her back.

Ten minutes after I got the call, the gun jammed.

Even with the knowledge of the truth, you cannot help but go back to your 9-to-5.
What do you think happens when you find God?
You go back home, someday.
You make eggs.
You sleep in your blue bedsheets.
You play Lana Del Rey.
Because no matter how much of the universe you figure out, you cannot do anything with that information.

There is no choice but to go back.
And that is what maddens half the ones who try.

I do not believe we are so hopeless that not even one of us knows what I am speaking of—
but I do believe the drive home maddened him.

Maybe that is what makes God divine:
He is stopping us from finding out—
because there is nothing we can do.

Isn’t that a divine God?