Sometimes, secretly, I think maybe god exists. Not God, not the Almighty, no Lord or Saviour or Messiah. He has no white robe, no staff, no books. My god smites no sinners and saves no sick, asks for no penance and offers no paradise.
My god is quieter. My god stirs in the snowy silence of winter walks home and lives in the sunlight that blinds me momentarily on the long bus rides, that reminds me how good it feels to be alive. My god knows the secrets I’ve whispered into blankets and collarbones.
I worship nothing and belong to no -isms. You will never find me on your front door with a pamphlet and a sales pitch. I know how the universe works, the wonder of stars and the cosmos, of black holes and expansion, of the inevitability of death and mortality. My god is not one of delusions and make-believe.
It’s just —
Late at night, when I am tucked into bed and somewhere-in-the-distance (or somewhere-in-my-mind), I can hear a voice telling me that I am not alone,