by Vixie the Fox, theologian of questionable credibility
Sometimes I wonder—
is there a God?
And if so, did They misplace me
like an overdue library book
or an emotionally damaged sock?
I pray sometimes,
mostly by accident,
usually after the second cup of existential tea
when I realize my life feels
like an awkward pause
in someone else’s conversation.
“Hello? Universe?” I whisper.
“It’s Vixie.
The fox with emotional punctuation problems.
You might remember me from previous pleas
such as ‘Why Am I Like This?’ and ‘Dear God, Why Carl?’”
Silence.
Just leaves rustling sarcastically
and Carl rolling his pinecone eyes.
Maybe God’s busy.
Maybe They’re dealing with bigger things—
wars, famines, raccoon uprisings.
Maybe my loneliness is low-priority,
stamped “TO BE HANDLED EVENTUALLY”
and filed under “miscellaneous existential complaints.”
Or worse—maybe God got bored,
moved on, found a more relatable woodland creature
with fewer metaphors and more likable flaws.
But what if God is me?
Oh no.
Please no.
I’m deeply underqualified.
I once set my tail on fire making toast.
I guess for now,
I’ll keep sending postcards
to the cosmos:
“Wish You Were Here—
(but I’d settle for a minor miracle,
a muffin-based prophecy,
or a hug from a mysterious stranger).”
And maybe someday
I’ll hear back.
Or not.
Either way,
I’ll keep writing—
because someone, somewhere
should know what it felt like
to be forgotten
by Whoever Is in Charge
of emotional fox management.
