To the man downstairs

To the man downstairs—the one I see from my window upstairs,the one with the blue 2011 Toyota Corolla, still holding its shine like time forgot it—

You lift the hood like it can answer you. You turn the key like you expect life. You trust what you cannot seewill respond.

Each day—you check, you listen, you believe.Then you cover it, gently,like it matters.

And then you look up.

You curse your creator.Ask where He is—as if absence is proven by silence. As if not hearing means not being.

You call it logic. You call it science. You call belief foolish.

And yet—

You stand before a system you did not create,trusting forces you cannot see,expecting order from the unseen—and you call that certainty.

To the man downstairs—

Your belief does not make Him real.Your disbelief does not make Him vanish.

You already believe.Just not in a way you recognise.

Tomorrow, you will return. You will turn the key. You will expect life.

And it will come—

and you will still look up,and call the silence empty.

~EnamM