​God or no God

Life is a merciless, murderous son of a fuck— it devours the innocent, feeds the sky with screams, then sleeps soundly like it never heard them.

God or no God, the pain still bites. The soil still drinks the blood. The child still cries, and no thunder answers.

Job sat in ashes, fists clenched at heaven— and heaven shrugged. Answers came in wind, not comfort. In riddles, not reasons.

So if there is a God, He’s not the fireman. He’s not the one pulling people from the wreckage. We are.

And if there isn’t— then damn it, we’re all we’ve got.

But then this voice… not from clouds, not from thrones, but from dust-caked lips in Galilee: “The kingdom of God is within you.”

Not in temples. Not in the stars. Within.

Not handed to you— but found, if you dig through pain, through silence, through yourself.

So maybe the only savior is the one who gets up in the morning, bleeding but breathing, and says: I will love anyway.

Because if there’s divinity, it’s in that choice.

And if there’s a kingdom, it is made— not inherited.

By hands. By heart. By hurt made holy.