You call out for help, but there is no answer.
It’s a ritual, for you. You do it every time it’s quiet. Every time you are alone. Every time you have time to think. Every time you have time to feel.
You don’t know what you need help with. You don’t know why you need it.
But that you need it, you do know, and you call out, but never is there an answer.
Who could answer you, all alone as you are?
You sit on your own lonely planet, your own lonely spot; no-one else can reach you.
You have more control over the world than you’d like, but none over yourself. You act assured, yet are anything but; your own eyes, a thousand times over, watch your every move, constantly judging.
You wish you could fly away one day, but you already have. You left long ago, and there’s no going back.
Sometimes you wish you could return, but that would be worse yet. Back there, you had to hide. Now, you live out in the open on your empty planet, but lonelier than ever.
Who would answer your call? Is there a God out there who listens?
Yet your will always be done; your wish is The Command. You could destroy the universe, or create a thousand more like it; either way, it wouldn’t take the teeniest effort.
You decide, and it is so.
You may as well be God.
But if you are…
Who then will listen to your prayers?
Who, for God, is God?
You decide that there must be someone to guide you; someone to help.
“Hello,” you say. “Can you help?”
“Hi!” replies The Voice. She sounds very excitable. “I believe I can.”