Belief—
in human superiority,
as if our bones were cast from starlight
and sculpted by the breath of time
to rise above
the dirt we sprang from.
We, the genus of sapiens,
walking upright into the mirror,
calling ourselves evolved,
highly developed beings
tuned from the greatest of sinews—
muscle, mind, myth—
a symphony of what we want to believe
beauty is.
Yet
we reach into the face
of the fullness of emptiness—
that vast void blinking back
with no pulse, no voice—
and pull a deity from the dark,
shape it
in the curve of our own fear.
For comfort.
For belonging.
For control.
Is this what it looks like
to be supreme?
To need a safety net
woven not of fact,
but of faith?
A belief
not bound by what we see,
but by the unseen—
by absence itself
posing as presence.
Have we not throttled our own evolution
by kneeling before it?
A greater being,
greater than this aching flesh,
this buzzing mind—
we dream of one
to govern the storm,
as if lightning needs a reason,
as if chaos must be calmed
by an invented order.
We call it sacred.
We call it necessary.
We call it
truth.
But what is truth
if it must be protected
from the scrutiny of our own
curiosity?
Is our reality
too fragile
to measure without myth?
Too wild
to face without a name?
This is the clash—
the jagged line
running through every thinker's chest,
the raw divide
between belief and being.
To be human
is to be torn.
We are not whole.
We are haunted.
We are miraculous,
and we are afraid.
We are still evolving—
but not always forward.
Not always upward.
Sometimes just
around in circles,
orbiting the god
we made from the silence.
And still—
we crawl through time,
wearing skins stitched from questions,
dragging the weight of what we think we know.
uncertain architects
drawing blueprints in water,
chasing meaning through fog,
becoming
what we do not yet
understand.
