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.

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.”