The wound through which God sees Himself

I do not understand infinity, but I feel it flowing through me, like a river that asks no questions, only carves the banks of my being, slowly, until there is nothing left of me. I write not to explain, but to gather fragments of silence I cannot hold in my hands. Each word is a crack through which God tries to see Himself, but all He sees are shadows— His own, mine, stretched across the face of a weeping world. I do not know where I am going, but the road feels me. Under my steps, time splinters, and between my ribs, something stirs, something that does not belong to me. Perhaps an echo of a forgotten dream, perhaps the wound through which the divine breathes. I feel my skin like paper, crumpled by unseen hands, writing and rewriting the story of a silent God. I pull each word from my flesh, lay it on the table of time, and watch as pain blooms from it. But what am I, if not a broken mirror? Through me, light passes and fractures. Through me, infinity screams its lack of edges. And all I can do is write— not to understand, but to survive this silent song of the universe.