Black Hole Theology
Depression taught me a strange religion.
Its god was absence.
Its prayers were unanswered questions.
Its sacred text
was written in all the things
I could no longer feel.
Anxiety became the high priest,
translating silence into prophecy.
Every shadow a warning.
Every pause a judgment.
Every tomorrow
already carrying the memory
of its own collapse.
Together they built a universe
where meaning orbited doubt,
and doubt devoured meaning,
a black hole feeding upon itself.
I stood at the event horizon,
watching pieces of myself
cross over.
Dreams first.
Then certainty.
Then the simple belief
that I would survive becoming me.
Yet something remained.
Not hope.
Hope was too visible.
Something smaller.
A witness hidden beneath the wreckage,
counting the stars
the darkness forgot to swallow.
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