The Seams of the Sky 🌌

I sat on the veranda, closing my book without finishing the page, drawn instead to the sky stretched out in front of me.

It was right after the rain. The air was still. The world felt washed clean. Everything softer, quieter, almost unreal.

In the distance, the tops of trees rose as if they were trying to touch the sky. And between them, I noticed something strange. A faint white line, like an outline separating them, as though the sky and the trees were two parts of a drawing that had not fully blended.

For a moment, a thought crossed my mind.

Is this world a canvas?

Did some god, somewhere beyond all this, sit down and paint it into existence? Or is it something else entirely?

I remembered a small game I used to play as a child. I would draw a world on paper, place an ant inside it, and watch it move, trapped within the lines I had made.

I thought I was giving it a world.

But really, I was controlling it.

What if this world is just that? A game. A creation. A quiet amusement.

What if we are part of something’s play, a moving, breathing toy?

Not a god of mercy, but a silent observer. One who hears every cry, every prayer, and chooses not to intervene.

I remember laughing once, watching that tiny ant struggle inside my drawing, tracing circles, unable to escape.

And now I wonder.

Did that moment make me a god, simply because I had power?

Maybe that is all it takes. Not divinity, not creation, but the certainty of power to become something greater than others.

Humans worship what they have never seen, bowing to an unseen force. Yet among living beings, they become gods themselves to the weaker, to those who have no choice but to believe.

Those with power watch the helpless.

Sometimes, they find comfort in their silence.

And the helpless hold onto hope, calling out to something they have never known, clinging to it as their last illusion.

They pray.

They wait.

And somewhere, if there are gods at all, they hear it.

And if they do—

they sleep.