for the ungraspable
Permit this old soul a moment of indulgence. The hands may tremble, but the questions remain steady—etched deeper with every passing year.
I have watched beauty collapse into ruin. I have outlived gods, mentors, ideologies, and the certainty of my own convictions. Yet still, morning finds me hunched at this desk of thought, plagued by the same ache: Is there more than this flickering assembly of skin, sorrow, and synapse?
We are spirits tangled in bone. Memory housed in failing circuitry. And somewhere between heartbeat and entropy, we invented—or discovered—a higher power. Something not bound by blood or breath. Something beyond.
What began as firelight shadows and skyward songs became theology, mysticism, silence. Every culture has tried to name it. Some whispered. Some screamed. All hoped someone… something… was listening…
But is it real?
I do not know.
Once, I believed. Then life made a mockery of belief. And yet… I still write. I still reach. That must count for something.
Some claim to feel this greater presence as a warmth behind the ribs, a second pulse not their own. Others spend their lives groping through fog, fists full of unanswered prayers. Some kneel instinctively. Some mock the very notion. Still, the impulse persists.
Why?
Why do we, even in the silence, continue speaking as though the dark might answer?
Perhaps the higher power is not a person at all, but a process. A restoration in motion. A glimmer found in forgiveness. In the quiet kind of love that asks for nothing back.
Or perhaps it is a presence — ancient, watching, invisible not from absence, but from mercy. Knowing that to reveal itself fully would undo us.
I have no proof. Only this:
When my soul lay in pieces on the floor…
when belief was a tattered robe, I no longer wished to wear…
But because wonder itself might be holy.
So, if You're there…
You don’t need to prove anything.
Just… stay.
This Other Voice, transmitting from Ghostpoint.
- Ghostpoint: This Other Voice Transmits
- Retired escape artist. Formerly fluent in self-destruction, now conversational in clarity though the dialect still trips me up some days. These transmissions are sober thoughts from Ghostpoint: a quiet outpost where the gravity is emotional, and the ghosts mostly mind their business. I've walked the length of addiction’s hallway lights flickering, echoes thick and stumbled into daylight squinting like someone betrayed by kindness. Now I write instead of drink, reflect instead of unravel. Most days. Connection? It circles, like a planet with a crooked orbit - close enough to feel, never quite close enough to hold. Still, I keep sending signals. This isn’t a sermon. It’s a folded note in the pocket of the universe. Read it if you like. Just know the voice stays helmeted.
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