god in the glitch
They told me the world was built on pillars.
Stone. Law. History.
But I have seen the scaffolding.
I found it humming behind midnight radio stations, behind the static between television channels, behind the strange silence that falls over a crowded room just before someone says, "Did you feel that?"
Something is stitching reality together with invisible thread.
Something keeps missing a few knots.
A man disappears from a photograph.
A memory changes clothes.
An entire generation swears a movie quote existed that never existed.
And somewhere, in a room with no windows, a clock ticks backward.
The conspiracy is not that someone is controlling the world.
The conspiracy is that the world is trying desperately to control itself.
Look closely.
The moon follows us home like a loyal witness.
The oceans breathe though no lungs exist beneath them.
Dead stars still send postcards of light to people not yet born.
Tell me that isn't suspicious.
Tell me why every ancient civilization, separated by deserts, mountains, and impossible oceans, looked toward the heavens and drew the same shapes.
Tell me why déjà vu arrives wearing the face of certainty.
Tell me why your soul occasionally recognizes a stranger.
The officials say coincidence.
Coincidence is the duct tape holding together explanations that leak.
I suspect the universe has a basement.
A place where forgotten timelines gather dust.
A warehouse of discarded destinies.
Shelves stacked high with alternate versions of us.
One where I became a king.
One where you never learned my name.
One where humanity evolved wings and never once dreamed of falling.
At three in the morning, when the streetlights flicker like nervous witnesses, I imagine clerks of eternity rushing through those aisles, misfiling futures.
And every once in a while, one slips through.
A prophecy.
A dream.
A miracle.
A ghost.
An impossible coincidence with fingerprints still wet upon it.
The truth may not be hidden by governments, secret societies, or men in dark suits.
The truth may be hidden by scale.
An ant cannot see a cathedral.
A raindrop cannot comprehend a storm.
Perhaps we are standing inside a machine so vast its gears are galaxies.
Perhaps every conspiracy theory, every myth, every religion, every wild-eyed prophet is merely a blind person touching one fragment of an elephant made of stars.
is this true?
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