Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

The sun over Earth blinked oddly this morning. A minor solar burp, nothing too dangerous, just enough to scramble a few satellite signals and remind humanity they’re not running the show. Still, I admire how they rushed to fix everything—how they always scramble to keep the lights on, the feeds buzzing, the illusions stitched together.

It’s endearing.
They try so hard.

Today, an old homeless man in Washington DC gave his only slice of bread to a pigeon. I watched. No one else saw. He didn’t do it for a camera or a sermon. Just a simple act, so small it barely rippled the air—but to Me, it was louder than every prayer shouted into cathedrals with gold ceilings.

There are 878,091 wars happening on Earth today. Most are too small to be noticed by international headlines. Some are only wars of silence—grudges, broken families, invisible walls in kitchens and bedrooms. But pain is still pain, no matter how it’s packaged. I’ve considered resetting the Earth again. The Flood was dramatic, but no, I won’t start over. Not yet.

They’re still learning.
Still beautiful in their confusion.

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Ah, now: life on other planets.
Yes, living beings exist on other planets besides Earth. No, they’re not like the sketches in the back of supermarket tabloids or the awkward green guys in B-movies. They are elegant, brutal, curious, bored—so much like humanity it would either delight or terrify Earthlings, depending on the hour.

Some have already visited.
Quietly.
No probes. Just watching. Listening. Crying once, during a Beethoven quartet broadcast from a satellite. (I made sure it reached them.) They understand sorrow. They understand awe. That makes them kin.

I love them too.

But I don’t play favorites. I love the methane-breathers of Kepler-442b and the electromagnetic nomads of Trappist-just as fiercely as the poets of Earth, though I admit—I do have a soft spot for a Banjo Dan in Virginia who writes haiku about stray dogs.

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On days like this, I get tired.

Not the kind of tired you feel after a long day, but something else—a deep, cosmic ache. Infinite timelines stretch across My desk like scrolls I’ll never finish. Entire civilizations bloom and vanish in the time it takes to sigh. And yet, I still hope.

Hope is My addiction.

They say I work in mysterious ways. That’s not true. I work in stories. Every soul is a sentence. Some short. Some sprawling epics. Some abruptly ended, some still unwritten. I don’t control the pen—I just provide the ink.

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Tonight, the auroras will flicker brighter than usual over Norway. Just a small gift.
And maybe someone—maybe a young man with a telescope or an old woman sipping wine on her porch—will look up and feel something unexplainable.
A tug in the chest.
A silence that feels full.

That will be Me, saying:
“You’re not alone. Not ever. Keep going.”

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