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~ People are people Computer beings are bits And god is an it ~ There is a quiet hierarchy buried in these three lines — not of power, but of 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘧. Start with people. We are the most complicated thing we know of, and yet we are the most legible. Crack open any biology textbook and there we are: cells dividing, neurons firing, blood moving in its ancient loops. We hunger, we sleep, we grieve. Our existence is wet and warm and undeniable. You can put a person under a microscope. You can measure their heartbeat. You can watch them cry at a funeral and know, without any doubt, that something real is happening. People are people — flesh operating on the instructions written into every strand of DNA we carry. Messy. Mortal. Absolutely, verifiably 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. Then come the computers. Strip away the sleek aluminum casing and the glowing screens, and what do you find? Ones and zeros. That's it. On or off. Yes or no. A computer doesn't feel the weight of a decision — it just executes it. Billions of tiny switches flipping in fractions of a second, and out comes a photograph, a spreadsheet, a song. It is a staggering magic trick, but the trick is fully explained. We built it. We understand every layer of it. A computer is perhaps the most perfectly knowable thing humanity has ever made, because humanity made it on purpose, according to a plan, with no mysteries left in the blueprint. Bits have no ambiguity. A bit is never 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 a one. And then there is god. Not biological. Not binary. God, the poem suggests, operates at a 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 level — which is another way of saying: we have no instruments for this. No microscope, no debugger, no manual. You cannot run god through a diagnostic. You cannot point to the source code. Every major civilization in human history has reached toward something it could not measure and called it divine, which tells you something profound — either about the universe, or about us, or perhaps both. The honesty of calling god "theoretical" isn't an insult. It is the most accurate word available. A theory is the best explanation we have when the evidence refuses to be pinned down. And yet — here is the quiet gut-punch of the poem — 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. A computer without a user is just warm metal. It needs us to matter. People, too, need context — community, meaning, each other — to feel fully real. But god, by the poem's own logic, needs nothing. Not proof. Not acknowledgment. Not even a name. The word "it" is doing enormous work in that final line. Not 𝘩𝘦. Not 𝘴𝘩𝘦. 𝘐𝘵. Something beyond gender, beyond personality, beyond the need to be understood. Something that simply 𝘪𝘴, indifferent to whether we can confirm it. Less provable than a computer. Unbothered by that fact. That, the poem suggests, is what makes it god. ~ This observation was made with the assistance of claude.ai. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To support me, visit: https://tinyurl.com/andy-rukes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~