stories are the language of the universe

a reflection, because I forgot I am holding the pen

They say stories are the language of the universe.
It’s how karma listens. How the gods watch their chosen sheep.

It’s not when you pray to one big god,
saying the same words everyone else whispers at night,
a pre-written script that neither touches your heart,
nor theirs.

It’s that tear soaked, sob-smudged, scribbled mess of your heart on the page
that makes them listen.
That makes them come down at night
to brush your hair out of your face,
wave their hand, leaving but a soft rustle
before they take that mess of a heart in the shape of a story,
and deliver it to the universe.

It’s why I write all your stories with a happy ending for you.
So my god does not come down to my bedside.
So the story doesn’t become language.
So the universe doesn’t know.

It’s why the man on the rooftop let you go,
wishing you the best life, your needs met, your heart always full,
and your soul never cold.

It’s why Hiems had tea with Orrin,
getting to ask the things that eat me up at night.
Was I the angel in your story, or are you the devil in mine?
Orrin does not know, neither does Hiems,
but just like the man on the rooftop, he got to leave happy and at ease.

It’s why Almie got to decide if she will receive a letter or not,
because I certainly never will.
It was a happy ending for you again, too, because Almie got a treat,
and she left softly. With something to keep her soul warm.

It’s why Merete got to learn about what love isn’t,
because I never had that chance.
But of course,
again in a happy-ending-kind-of-way for you.

Because stories are the language of the universe,
and my god will come down when the pages are smudged and cold from tears,
rather than crinkled and warm from smiles.

Maybe, just maybe,
I’m tired of making sure you’re in heaven.
Maybe, just maybe,
it’s time to sit down and ask myself the same question Orrin asked:

Am I happy continuing to be the angel in your life,
the one you forgot about,
you don’t care about,
the one you blame and guilt.

Maybe, just maybe,
it’s time to accept what you see me for
and become the very devil you seem to see in me.

But you know,
stories are the language of the universe.

And devils don’t write happy endings.

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