God’s Magnifying Glass

I'm not sure what to write here.
I'm not sure why to write here.
I'm not sure who will write here.
Except that it'll sort of be me.

But who the fuck is this guy? You might ask.
You might.
Bad idea.
Not because I don’t want to answer.
Because I can’t.
I don’t know.
Neither do you.

And that’s fine.

Certainty kills curiosity.
Certainty makes people stupid.
Makes people lazy.
Makes people full of themselves.
I'm certain of it.

I rode a horse, much too tall.
Saw the world from above, my own two eyes.
The paint dried, then peeled from the walls.
The sound it made—like teeth grinding.
Like fingernails on a dinner plate.

First-world, first-class citizens.
Begging, wailing.
Crying for the national guard.
Crying for help with their domestic thoughts.
Their existential crisis.
Funded by sweat and tears.
The currency of the gods.
Worshiped. Squandered.
Still—somehow—not enough.

And yet, here I am. Again.
Watching the fire take everything.
Smoke rising. Heat licking.
Like ants, they scramble.
Run from it. Into it.
Tripping over themselves. Mindless.

It makes me wonder.

Is God just some brat with a magnifying glass?
Or am I?

Point the finger at Him. Call Him a pyro.
But I’d be lying.
I’ve watched things burn my whole life.
Knowing damn well I could stop it.
I don’t.
I never have.
Maybe I never will.

I’m going to write my thoughts down again.
I know that much.

Attach meaning if you want.
Purpose. Direction.
That’s all you.

I’m just writing.