God didn't count on the trouble he'd cause by lighting a single match in the big black beyond. The same way a child doesn't count on a gun shooting more than just water.
God should have known that what he'd done would combust into not only light and tiny mirrors to reflect it, but a ball screaming with life. In a blink, the surfrace began growing mold and swelling and pussing. Mold can only grow so much before it becomes self-aware and gets a fucking ego. Starts making up names and rules. Starts building houses and churches and schools. Starts making weapons so it can kill others and enjoy its brief existence a little bit more.
So it can have toilet paper a little bit softer. Water a little bit colder. Food a little bit unhealthier, yet so goddamn delicious.
This is what I see when I open my eyes. I see the cars driving past, and I hear others above me on the overpass. They rumble and screach into my dreams at night while I huddle against cold cement with a blanket, sucking in their exhaust.
So we're clear, this wasn't always my home. So you don't start rolling your eyes, I wasn't born into this. I had a house and a wife and a kid and a tabby cat. I had chicken on mondays and steak on fridays and I had salad and bread every day of the fucking week. I had it all.
The same way every last driver of every last car out here has it all, but doesn't like to admit it.
I scream at a Dodge Stratus, "Well, you did it, buddy! You've got it all! Get used to it."
Acknowledge it and then maybe you can reverse engineer your life. Because, let me tell you, there's more to life than having it all. I know you can't get that just yet. And maybe you never will. But if one day you end up tripping and landing face-first on a tragedy. Don't get up. Let time unravel from there and let the mold keep growing around you. Wait for it to pollute you out of your misery.
Only when you're waiting for death, can you truly appreciate life. The life you had, and even sometimes the moments you still have. Like right now, when the sun sets just right on a poisoned sky and makes the land scape of all look yellowed from time like a photograph or pages in a book. And you think maybe, just maybe the fabric of everything is almost ready to crumble away in your hand.
God didn't count on the trouble he'd cause by lighting a single match in the big black beyond. The same way my child didn't count on the gun in daddy's closet shooting more than just water.