It's a disquieting thought.
For me... there may be a God. A creator. Or maybe some type of energy. The universe is vast and strange, full of things we don't understand, probably can't understand with our ape brains because we think it is limited. Maybe there is a fundamental force, a consciousness woven into the fabric of reality, something that sparked it all or maintains its impossible complexity, the underlying laws of physics and existence itself. I can entertain that possibility. The sheer improbable elegance of existence hints at... something. Something greater than our daily scramble. Something that doesn't fit neatly into boxes or ancient scrolls.
But why would I believe in them? This potential creator, this energy, this architect of the cosmos? Why would I surrender? What reason is there? Has this potential entity offered me a compelling contract? Shown up and demonstrated its benevolence and wisdom in an undeniable way? Does the suffering of the innocent, the indifferent brutality of nature, the endless human cruelty... does that argue for a kind and wise manager of reality who deserves my attention? It argues, if anything, for an absentee landlord, or an incompetent one, or one with a deeply disturbing sense of humour, or simply a blind, amoral process. None of which compel worship.
So, no. For what reason? There is none compelling enough to justify giving up my own flawed, struggling attempt at understanding. No reason to hand over my agency, my judgment, my responsibility for my own actions and thoughts, to an unseen, unproven power whose purported plan includes so much agony and confusion. To surrender feels like intellectual suicide. It feels like giving up the fight to know, or at least to grapple with the unknowable on my own terms. It feels like checking out, opting for received wisdom over lived experience and critical thought.
I see the appeal, of course. The comfort, the community, the sense of belonging, the promise of meaning and purpose handed down from an ultimate authority. These are powerful human needs, and belief systems are very good at meeting them. But the cost feels too high. The cost is the questioning mind, the independent spirit, the messy, difficult but ultimately more authentic task of figuring things out for yourself. Finding your own meaning. Creating your own purpose. Building your own community based on shared humanity, not shared dogma. Taking responsibility for the state of the world and trying to fix it, rather than waiting for divine intervention or dismissing it as part of a mysterious plan.
My nature rebels against the idea of surrender. Against being told what to think, what to value, how to live, by an authority that offers no verifiable credentials. I see the beauty, yes, the awe-inspiring scale, the intricate dance of life. I can appreciate the mystery. But appreciation is not worship. Curiosity is not surrender. Respect for the unexplainable is not blind faith. My internal landscape is one of questions, of continuous exploration, of provisional answers held lightly. It's a landscape ill-suited to the solid, immovable certainty that belief demands.
So, even if they exist, this potential creator, this energy, this architect of the cosmos... I will not surrender.
I will not bend the knee.
I will not offer blind faith as currency. Because there is no reason, no justification presented by the state of things that earns that kind of absolute devotion from me. My mind, my will, my flawed pursuit of understanding... they are all I have, and I will keep them. I will stand here, in this amusing, confusing world, relying on my own two feet and the shaky, imperfect scaffolding of human knowledge and human connection, watching others trust in a sky that doesn't always answer. And I will find my own reasons to live, to act, to build, to care, without the promise of divine reward or the threat of divine punishment. The absence of God, for me, is not a void, but a space. A space I must fill myself. With thought, with action, with compassion, with doubt, with the endless, fascinating process of trying to understand this place and my tiny, fleeting part in it. And that, perhaps, is a more honest, if more difficult, kind of existence.
Yes. I reject the God. And the world keeps spinning anyway. Which, I suppose, is another piece of evidence.
The air tastes like dust and something else, something vaguely sweet maybe, like regret left out in the sun too long. Here. I'm here. Still. Waiting. It's the main verb of my existence now. Waiting. Every breath a tick of a clock I can't see, counting down to zero. Zero, where everything stops. Where I stop. Finally.
But look. See them? Over there. Laughing. Sharing something on a small screen that glints in the weak light. They look… happy. For a moment, anyway. Anyone can be happy here. Sometimes. Fleeting, yes, but there. A possibility. Like a dropped coin you see glinting on the pavement but know you won't bother picking up. It's there for someone, just not for you. Not when you're weighted down with this... this heavy patience.
And yet. The body. This meat-suit I'm wearing. It doesn't seem to understand the plan. It just… lives. It breathes on its own, stupid lungs expanding and contracting. It feels things. The sun on the skin, warm. The slight ache in the knees after walking too far. The hollow rumble of hunger. And sometimes, in those moments, a flicker. A strange, unexpected flicker. Is it happiness? Not mine, not me, the waiting part. But the body. Just the body reacting.
It's confusing. This shell, it gets some kind of satisfaction from just being. From moving. From eating something good, really good, that melts on the tongue. Is it influence? Are the happy bits just reflections of the happiness around me, bouncing off this empty vessel? Like a mirror catching light it can't generate itself? Or maybe the body just… adapts. Becomes happier because it's the default setting for a living thing? Like a plant turning towards the sun, it just does it, regardless of the seed's internal philosophy of returning to dust. Or maybe it's simpler. Just… becoming like the others. Mixing with them. Blending in. The body finds a strange comfort in the rhythm of their lives, the shared mundane moments. Breathing with them. Walking beside them. Pretending.
Ah, pretending. That's the key. The performance. Every step, every smile I manage (a thin, stretched thing), every nod of understanding when someone speaks. It's all part of the act. The Grand Production: 'Living Until the Final Curtain'. And everyone or I am the lead actor, determined to give a convincing performance right up until the very last moment. Why? Because… because that's the rule, I guess. You're here, you perform. Until you're not. And I am still here.
So, alright. The resolution, fragile as it is. Until death comes, until that final release, I'll do it. Live. Or, rather, act like I'm living. I'll go. I'll move. I'll see things. Eat things. Hear things. Everything. Or almost everything.
Because there's that one thing. That snag in the fabric of the plan. Something I want. Desperately, with a part of me that feels dangerously close to the body's stupid, unthinking joy. But also, something I absolutely do not want. Cannot want. Because to want it, to reach for it, would mean… disrupting the waiting. It would mean acknowledging a future beyond zero. And that's unacceptable. The script is written. The end is known. Diverting now would be… messy. Unnecessary. And dangerous.
Dangerous how? It feels like... vulnerability. Like opening a window in a perfectly sealed room. Allowing an unpredictable draft in. This something is tied to someone, I think. Or a feeling they evoke. A specific person who looks at me sometimes and I feel like they see past the performance. Just for a flicker. And in that flicker, there's a terrifying possibility. Of being seen. Not the actor, but… whatever is left beneath the costume. And that part is the waiting part. The part that shouldn't interact. Shouldn't want.
It's a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. Does it matter? The days blur. Another sunrise I didn't need to see. The body wakes up anyway. stretches. feels the cold floor underfoot. Demands coffee. Demands food. It's so insistent, this body. So alive. It walks out the door. Goes through the motions. To the place where people gather. Where noise happens. Where they talk about their lives, their futures. Futures. The word feels alien in my mouth, a foreign language I can't pronounce.Someone bumps into me. Mumbles an apology. I nod. Smile the thin smile. The body reacts automatically. Keeps moving. Like a well-oiled machine on a pre-programmed path. Path to where? To the end.
Always to the end.