You're wallwork. A painted face on the mural we call life. You exist for no purpose, yet you live for reasons unbeknownst to all but the scholars who breathe, speak, and dream life itself.
Who are we to tell tales of God? Of the soul residing in the hearth of our bodies, gradually decaying as time endlessly presses onward, following the path that even our ancestors couldn't conquer.
What do we truly know of Heaven and Hell but the stories of those who have travelled along the brink of life and death, visiting those realms of angels and demons; uninvited but wholly welcome if their stay were for eternity. Only to be brought back by a capricious wind, calling their wayward spirit home.
What right do we have to make assumptions about the very essence that gives us our existence? Our only right is to live. Whether as part of the wallwork that holds the very fabric of life together, or as a star that shines brightly and burns out in a fiery burst, leaving nothing but a trail of dust.