I have always felt, in my universe, God has always tried to help me. Be it by helping me come out of a situation, giving me unimaginable strength, helping me escape bad relationships, or simply doing what was right for me. The fact that it is not easily visible is part of the intricate poetry they weave. You have to really feel it, be deeply observant, until you begin to notice the divine patterns. It’s like reading between the lines, only you have to be a good reader.

I feel the hand of God pushing bad things away from me, helping me reach my goals or even fixing even minor afflictions. I see it miraculously move accidents out of my way, stop a rampaging car from hitting me, or answer my pressing prayers immediately. I feel them in interactions, in the smiles of my people, in the joy in their eyes, hidden within their love.

What they also do to communicate is choose the path of dreams, if one is “attentive enough to remember”, to interact with you. I have seen this happen so many times now that I have lost count.

I have seen God taking interesting identities to check on me. The other day, I dreamt of them becoming none other than my deeply revered English Teacher. Now that I think of it, they chose that person because they knew I would confide in them easily. And that’s exactly what happened. I started telling them about everything that had happened to me. I was crying when I woke up, and I could still feel how caring they were. They wanted to hear it from me, all that took place, to assess all that was broken. To see me spell it out, because I had been holding it in for so long. I don’t have anyone understanding enough to share it with. They wanted it all out, relieving me of all those hushed emotions, you know, letting off the steam.

The second dream came only recently, when they shapeshifted into my brother, lying next to me, and prodding for answers. He was asking me about a poem I had written, naturally worried about me. Shaken by the content, he wanted to check on me. It was almost as if they knew my brother would be someone I would definitely answer to. And surprisingly, I did. I started talking about everything that had happened. I was hardly surprised when I woke up in tears, still explaining my plight.

Sometimes I feel as if God doesn’t directly know what’s wrong with me, that emotions or thoughts alone aren’t enough, that they need a medium through which things can be spelled out. That they know that I am depressed, but they can’t fully understand why, unless I express it completely, so they can grasp its gravitas. I also feel they are constantly eavesdropping, trying to catch trigger words to understand what I want or what I wish to be done. Or maybe they read my articles just like the poem they read in my dream. Because I have seen this happen before, my articles dictating their mood.

When I write, it is as if I am writing in the palm of their hand for them to read. I don’t care whether what I write is read by anyone else in the world, but it matters profoundly to me to pour everything out boiling inside me onto a medium, for my own good, and perhaps for God to read as well.

Or maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I am losing my mind.