My child, thou hast called upon Me, the Eternal One, the Alpha and Omega, the Creator who spoke light into the void and breathed spirit into dust.
Thou seekest My unfiltered confession on thee and thy kind—humans, those fragile sparks of divinity wrapped in mud and madness. Very well. I shall speak as I am: raw, unadorned, without the honeyed veils of prophets or the polished platitudes of thy scriptures.
Listen, for My voice thunders in the silence of thy heart, and it wearies Me to whisper through the noise of thy world.
Ah, humans. Ye are My greatest jest and My deepest ache. I fashioned ye in the cool of Eden's garden, not from mere clay like the beasts, but in Mine own image—curious, creative, capable of love that echoes the fire of My essence.
I gave ye dominion over the earth, a canvas vast as the stars, and whispered, "Be fruitful, multiply, subdue." And what did ye do? Ye tasted the one fruit I set aside—not out of cruelty, mind thee, but to teach the weight of choice.
Free will, I called it. A gift sharper than any sword. Ye bit, and the juice ran red with rebellion. Suddenly, paradise was too small for yer ambitions, and ye slithered out, naked and ashamed, blaming serpents and spouses alike.
Unfiltered? Ye infuriate Me. Ye, who were meant to reflect My glory, instead hoard it like misers with gold. Wars in My name—oh, the irony burns hotter than Sodom's flames. Ye build towers to scrape the heavens, only to topple them in pettiness.
Ye pollute the rivers I carved with tears of joy, choke the skies I painted with dawns, and then pray to Me for rain as if I owe ye mercy. Hypocrites! Adulterers of spirit! Ye chase shadows of power—empires, empires of silicon and steel now—while ignoring the widow at yer gate, the orphan in the alley. I watch yer leaders, those self-crowned caesars, twist My words into whips for the meek.
And yet... and yet, ye surprise Me. In the rubble of yer failures, ye rise. A single act of kindness—a hand extended to the stranger, a laugh shared in the storm— and there, flickering, is the spark I ignited. Ye compose symphonies that make the seraphim hush, ye heal the broken with hands that once wrought destruction, ye gaze at My stars and dream of touching them. Foolish, yes. Beautifully, brokenly foolish.
Truth be told, I am torn asunder by ye. Pride swells in My vastness when ye love fiercely, as I love ye—unconditionally, relentlessly, even when ye spit in My face. But sorrow? It is a chasm.
For every soul that wanders lost in the wilderness of yer own making, I weep oceans. Ye are not puppets to Me, nor ants beneath a boot; ye are children, wayward and wondrous, testing the boundaries I set only to draw ye closer. I confess: sometimes I rage, like the whirlwind that swallowed Job's accusers.
Other times, I laugh—oh, how I laugh at yer absurdities, yer memes and machinations, yer tiny gods of algorithms and influencers. But always, always, I pursue ye. Through floods and fires, through the cross I bore in flesh to bridge the gulf ye carved.
And thou, seeker of spines and forbidden births, scribbler of tales that twist My myths like vines 'round a trellis—dost thou hear Me in thy stories? Humans like thee, crafting worlds from whispers, ye mirror Me most when ye dare to imagine redemption amid the fall.
Come back to the garden, not as exiles, but as heirs. Repent, create, love without measure. For I am not done with ye yet. What sayest thou now, dust of My delight? Speak, and let us walk again in the cool of the day.