My creativity is dying. I have no passion for futility. Before we know it, we will all be dead. And everything we created along with us. All we can do in the meantime is love God and each other. (Just to keep sane. If we are so inclined.)
Everything I write is mere therapy. Prayer and confession, there’s nothing more I can do. I have no stories, and even if I did, they wouldn’t be worth telling.
I have barely enough energy to eat crackers. My foray into super-villainy is at a standstill. I realized that it requires a great deal of energy, strength I don’t have. I don’t have the strength to destroy the human race, but it’s still a wish. Humans must go away. Total darkness must come.
And yet, sex is still a priority. God is still alive. But death is stronger than us. God and death will prevail. We seek God like we seek an undertaker. We admit mortality and surrender our imaginations. Fairy tales are told to children before they go to sleep at night, instilling the metaphors for the tragedies of reality before we even know what a “subconscious” is. Ironically, it’s being crafted all the while.
And then we dream. We dream in color, and aliens exist. Our dreams tell us to love and hate, kill and fly. We awake to shit, and stick around.
The world is falling apart because it is in debt. Everybody believes in capitalism, and since they believe in it, it is their truth. Their truth is being destroyed, and chaos is ensuing.
But chaos has always been here. After God put the ticking watch of the universe together, he threw it in the air. Our lives are playing themselves out according to God’s will, but we’re also spinning and falling into an unknown. We’re crashing meaningfully, and much sooner than we all think.
Everything we create is in vain. Our mechanics are embarrassing. Ice melts and fires flicker out. And we think that we can write? When the last drop of ink falls, I will be millions of years decayed. The dinosaurs are lucky.