Look at the sun. Do you believe in it? No. It’s there—blazing, real, undeniable.
Same with a rose or the wind on your face. Real things don’t need your faith. So why do we believe in God? Because it’s a story, the grandest one we’ve ever told ourselves.
A fiction born from our ache for meaning.
I get it—that ache is real. But the story? It’s ours, not the universe’s.
Your mind hates a blank page. A world with no “why” feels cold, accidental. So we scribble in God, heaven, a big plan—anything to dodge the void. But here’s a twist: what if the void’s not so bad?
A river flows without a purpose. Birds sing without a script. They’re beautiful anyway.
Maybe life doesn’t need a meaning to fill you up. Maybe it’s enough just to be.
God, that old tale of a creator up high? I don’t buy it. No evidence, just echoes of our own voice. But don’t toss out the divine yet.
There’s something—call it godliness, a spark, an energy—that hums through everything. Not a person, not a boss in the sky, but a fullness you can taste. I’ve felt it. You can too. Not by believing, but by living.
Here’s where it gets real: creativity. That’s the holy stuff. When you make something—a beat, a sketch, a garden—you’re touching what’s sacred. Forget a God who builds worlds. You’re the builder. That’s not fluff—it’s power. Your hands, your voice, your fire. That’s divinity, right there.
Maturity’s tricky. We’re taught to chase “why”—why am I here, what’s the point? But watch nature. It doesn’t ask. It just moves, moment to moment, alive and free. You can too. Drop the need for a cosmic answer. Bliss doesn’t need a reason.
Stories like God? They tangle you up. Who made Him? Where’d He come from? One fiction breeds a dozen more. Cut the thread, and it’s simple: existence is enough. No origin needed. It’s here, you’re here—start there.
Belief’s a blindfold. Experience is light. Don’t take my word—or anyone’s. Sit still sometime. Breathe. Feel what’s inside. Meditation’s no magic trick; it’s medicine for your being. Through it, you’ll find that godliness—not up there, but everywhere. In the air, the trees, the beat of your heart.
The old tales—world made in six days, 6,000 years ago? They crumble under a microscope. Science doesn’t bend to fictions. And fictions need more fictions to prop them up. You don’t need that mess. You’ve got eyes to see, a mind to question. Use them.
So, seeker, where does this leave you? God’s nowhere—a ghost we dreamed up. But godliness? It’s all around, waiting for you to notice. Stop believing. Start tasting. The mystery’s vast, and I don’t have all the pieces—nobody does. That’s okay. The unknown’s not a threat; it’s an invitation. Step into it. Create. Live. That’s your truth. That’s enough.
Inspiration:
Carl Jung Doesn’t Believe in God (He Knows)
OSHO: I Do Not Believe In Believing
