They told me God was the creator.
That he’s in all of us. That he made us in his image, and he’s watching from up there somewhere—as long as we check the right boxes.
But in my brain—tired version, yet still orbiting—this image doesn’t fit.
I don’t see some bearded old man hiding on a cloud, handing out judgments like celestial cash register tickets, sending us to paradise or not based on divine administrative formalities (baptism stamped, prayer validated, behavior calibrated).
If God is the creator…
And if this creator is in all of us…
Then for me, God is the Big Bang.
A wave. An expansion. An unnamed energy, the source from which everything bloomed 13.8 billion years ago.
Not a moralistic spirit, but a pulse of creation.
And we all carry this pulse within us. In our bodies made of stardust, literal fragments of that ancient explosion.
I don’t know if I believe in God. But if I have to believe, I choose this version.
Not the one that divides. But the one that made everything possible. Including me.
And as for the “afterlife”… I don’t believe in heaven or hell.
I think death is like general anesthesia: no consciousness, no stress, no judgment. A big, gentle nothing.
And honestly? In a world that stings, nothing is sometimes already a form of paradise.