I Think

I think I may be God.
You never listen to what I say, though you say you hear and nod your head in an understanding manner, but rather than hearing me it seems you hear the echoing reverberations of my words in your hollow hearts and heads. You attribute my actions to your own selfish character, too blind to see the veils you put on yourself in your everdetermined course for what you mistakenly think of as freedom; such as believing that your "independence from requiring communion" has released you from some unnatural bond. You say nothing lasts forever, and certainly it is true that everything changes, but everything changes together. It has been said by wise men before that no man is an island. Likewise, no world is made up of simply a speck of dust. Inside of me is found not just a world, but an entire universe, so what then am I?