What if?
Two words. With just two words, the world was ours. We birthed the paradoxical eidolon known as meaning, and we even constructed deities to host and distribute it. And, once we grew bored of our surroundings, we delved into our own finitely infinite depths, seeking knowledge.
What if, huh? A weed of doubt slowly sprouts and gnaws away at my notions of knowing. The beauty of these two words has been lost to a truth begotten by time, forgotten in time. And now, I find myself at the bottom of my self-dug pit, watching the dirt precipitate in. We've finally arrived, haven't we? This is the broken border where I still stand, burdened by meaningless life. I've witnessed the end of all things - no, that was me, I was the end. I pulled the trigger, and this void is all that remains.
Have I lost faith? Surely, God was observing the scene of panic and hatred, of blood spilling, of wasted desperation. Can he forgive genocide? Is death contained in his supposedly omnipotent will? I need to believe that someone else is putting cruel words in my head, but as much as I try, I can feel the tension in my hands fading away. I clench them into fists, then let them fall limp. It doesn't matter how I arrived here.
As if in response, a light flickers into being in the distance. Uselessly, I pursue it, finally knowing right from wrong.