That is to say, dreaming us into existence. When you're dreaming, your brain can’t selectively emote. Dreaming, you can’t tell the difference between stubbing your toe and losing your toe, or kissing and making love; it’s all agony and it’s all ecstasy. That’s why during our waking hours, we can’t understand why we found a dream so terrifying, or so funny, or so profound.
God dreams us awake and she can’t tell the difference between genocide in Rwanda and a teenager in Greensbarrow who just got dumped, the difference between a man locked up for twenty years for a crime he didn’t commit and a child never allowed from his own parents' basement for the same span, the difference between a drowning baby and a puppy run down in the street.
We think we can, of course. This causes misery. We suppress this misery most of the time, bury it in text messages and blogs, in opening weekend box offices and seasons premieres, in a new pair of shoes or the gourmet sandwich shop that just opened.
But our denial doesn't stop it. Tragedies quaint and Earth-rocking continue, and we turn a blind eye, just like God. She’s too overwhelmed, you see, when all we need is for her to wake up, so she can tell the difference.
In that respect, we are her image.