Not "God"

God is not he, she, or it. God does not live in heaven. God is not defined or definable. Not an idol or a statue. Not singular. God is not "God".

It is, in my view, that which makes you happy. That which brings you hope. That which dries your eyes when you cry. That which gives you courage. God is that which makes you achieve more than you were capable off. God is nothing. Cannot be anything.

To a sailor lost at sea; a light house. That is God. To a lonely person; a friend. That is God. To a hungry person; food. That is God. To a blind person; sight. That is God.

God is what completes us. Makes us happy and whole. So if you really think of it…..you come to believe; God is not "God"…..



A young man. Sick of it all. His life. Everything. Packs his bags. Stuffs it with food and drink. And leaves home.
The sun beats down. The day is hot. Who is that on the bench by the side of the road?....

An old man. Sick of it all. Being ignored. Treated as a burden. He does not pack his bags, because he has none. He leaves home. Sits down on the bench by the side of the road. Who is that walking towards his bench by the side of the road?......

Thus they meet. Boy young, and man old.

The day is hot. Very hot. The sun scorches the bench and its occupants.

Very hot.

'Would you like a drink of water?' asks the boy. The old man nods. They share the water the boy had brought.

Very hot.

'Um…..can I offer you something to eat? I have a lot…' Another nod. They share the food.

Words are not exchanged. They just sit there. Silent. And yet the presence of the other is felt and is essential to both.
Evening comes. The cool evening breeze with it. That cool evening breeze that can cool even a mind……

They return to their homes. The boy young, and the man old. Cooled by that evening breeze…..
'Where have you been?'…… 'What are you smiling about?'… 'We've been worried sick. You shouldn't run away like that.'

He only smiles some more and says, cooled by the evening breeze, 'Today I met God. On the bench by the side of the road'…….

Itch

Itch



It was a day like any other. Everyone was living their lives. So was he.

He worked at a factory. A factory that made….well…what it was supposed to make. He never really thought about it.

He lived his life. He made his money. Money to live his life. That was all that mattered at the time. That was all…

He never bothered anyone. And they left him alone as well. They lived their lives. He lived his.

Today was not going to be different from the many days before it. It would be another day…of life.

Some might speak of destiny. Not him. He didn't like that. There was no destiny. He controlled he own life and how and where it went. And yet…..he felt like he had no purpose. Like his life was meaningless.
If he died today, another man would replace him at work. Birds would still chirp. The earth would still go around. If he died today……it would not matter. No one would regret his death. No one would remember or miss him.\n\n \nSo how was his life any different from that of anyone else\'s? How was he still himself? How did he retain his identity? \nWhy was he still himself?\n \nHow was he…… "he"?\n \nHe thought of this often. Very often. It was like a splinter in his mind. Like an itch….\nAnd he scratched it.\n \nWhat did tomorrow hold? Was it of any consequence? He would still be "he", and he would still not know why…\n\n \nThus life dragged on. It dragged him along with it. The rope that pulled him along was not tied to him. He held it in his hand. It was his choice. He could hold on or he could let go. It was for him to choose. Just as he pleased.\n",1]
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If he died today, another man would replace him at work. Birds would still chirp. The earth would still go around. If he died today……it would not matter. No one would regret his death. No one would remember or miss him.

So how was his life any different from that of anyone else's? How was he still himself? How did he retain his identity? Why was he still himself?

How was he…… "he"?

He thought of this often. Very often. It was like a splinter in his mind. Like an itch….
And he scratched it.

What did tomorrow hold? Was it of any consequence? He would still be "he", and he would still not know why…

Thus life dragged on. It dragged him along with it. The rope that pulled him along was not tied to him. He held it in his hand. It was his choice. He could hold on or he could let go. It was for him to choose. Just as he pleased.
\n \nThere was no destiny. He controlled his own life. It was his. He held the rope. He held the reigns. His.\n \nHappiness and love made the rope. Hate, spite, despair and envy were the wind against him and in his face. He could choose to ignore these. He could hold on to the rope tighter. It was his choice. Not destiny.\n\n \nBut all this still did not answer his question. \n \nWhy was he "he"? Why was he unique? Even if he did make up the general blur of the masses, if you looked closer, you would see him. A dot in the blur. A leaf in the tree. A pixel in the painting of life and time.\n\n \nBut he was there…..that\'s what mattered…\n \nSo today when he woke up. When he lived his life. He looked in the mirror and smiled to himself. He was "he". Still…..\n\n ",1]
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There was no destiny. He controlled his own life. It was his. He held the rope. He held the reigns. His.

Happiness and love made the rope. Hate, spite, despair and envy were the wind against him and in his face. He could choose to ignore these. He could hold on to the rope tighter. It was his choice. Not destiny.

But all this still did not answer his question.

Why was he "he"? Why was he unique? Even if he did make up the general blur of the masses, if you looked closer, you would see him. A dot in the blur. A leaf in the tree. A pixel in the painting of life and time.

But he was there…..that's what mattered…

So today when he woke up. When he lived his life. He looked in the mirror and smiled to himself. He was "he". Still…..

\nHe would continue to be "he". Till he let go the rope, or till it let him go.\n \nBut for now, the splinter was firmly lodged. The itch still itched. And he scratched it….\n \n \n \nRiddle\n \n \n \n \np.s. thanks for reading.......\n \ntell me wht you think.....\n \n(i\'m soooo glad ppl cant hit ppl over the net....at least not yet....hehe..."


He would continue to be "he". Till he let go the rope, or till it let him go.

But for now, the splinter was firmly lodged. The itch still itched. And he scratched it….

Lost

They do not see,
What I see.
They do not hear,
What I hear.
They do not feel,
What I feel.
They do not understand.
They do not feel
The pain in me.

The rage contained has reached
Its breaking point.
The want to end my life,
But, for of death,
I hold on.
My grip on sanity
Is slipping away.
My life is just a spinning ball.
My words are meaningless.

I feel like a nuisance to all.

The pain in me is breaking out,
The rage inside has reached the surface.
The hatred and spite for all,
Is creeping out from under my skin.
I hate to live, but fear my death.
I want to kill, but cannot for shame.
I hate this world, but love it so.

“What am I to do?” I ask myself.
The thought in my mind,
They scare me so,
The hate in my chest,
Is hurting me.

My heart, it says to end it all,
But I have lost all faith in it.
My mind it says to let it pass
But I ask myself,
“What does my mind know?”

I feel like life is bleak,
Like a blank paper of white
There seems to be nothing on it.

But then again I ask myself,
“Isn’t but white made-up
Of all the colours combined?”
So is this bleakness just,
A myriad of colours entwined?
Am I just lost in this world,
Just too confused to see it’s hues?
Or is it just that I have lost myself.

Lost in all the colour of life.