The Unfair Universe

Sometimes, I hate God.

Not for any particularly contentious reason do I hate him. He hasn’t been preached to me since I left the womb, nor has he ever made me feel like he doesn’t love me. The only way he’s slighted me is by creating this big, unfair universe.

He filled it to the brim with things we can never touch. What must it feel like to touch a star? How would it feel to fly on a planet with impossibly strong winds? Our fragile human bodies, for as exceptional as we think we are, could never handle such mysteries and live to tell the tale.

If you fell into a black hole, the entire universe would collapse inward until the billions of stars and galaxies would just appear as a dot in your vision. In the blink of an eye, you’d see thousands, millions, even billions of years pass before you. It’s quite possibly the most poetic way I could imagine dying, yet tragically, I can never experience it.

The universe is becoming lonelier, too. It’s expanding in every different direction, fast, and day by day we see fewer and fewer stars. At some point, all around us will be blackness. No sun. No galaxy. We’ll never be able to look outside our small slice of the observable universe, never know just how big or small we are in comparison to everything.

We’ll never know what the hell everything even means.

It hurts more than it should. God’s tempted us with the promises of unfathomable galaxies, planets, and life forms, but they all rest beyond our reach. Maybe when I die, I’ll be able to live as a ghost, and I’d spend my enternity exploring all the realms we could never see.

I just hope it’s something fantastical, something well worth the wait.