We'll sit and paint our nails. Play our games. Use our bodies. Live extravagantly intricate lives with repetition. Or maybe we'll throw in a bit of impulse and spontaneity. So we feel better about our callous parottings. We'll use long words to explain the simple thoughts. Or just talk to ourselves. Get stuck in our own minds. And we live with no better way but to explain through the vanity of it all. And be judged or heard through the vanity of others. But we've all got something to say. Our own fucking stories. Oh yeah. And feel such an isolation that the only way to end it is to either end ourselves or connect with the others around us. And maybe we'll discover it was all worth love. Or some sort of religion. Where are you God? Or maybe we'll just play out personas of our insecurities. Become the people that we wish we could pretend. And we laugh. Hah, hah. It was just all one big joke. Waste our hours with the lavish we can't possibly hold for a minute. I'll judge you now. I'll tell you that I hate you or I love you. That it's okay we're all human. We're all so fucking human. Tell you you're a bitch. I'm a bitch. No but I'm actually quite lovely if you get to know me. Yes. That was a good day. Brush your teeth now and go to bed. Busy busy busy. But they'll be watching me. No one's watching you. At night you hear the echos of the screams of your miserable life. And that wonderful life. You'll replay it and fall fast asleep knowing you'll be just fine the next day. Galactic viewings from a spec of the earth. Come back down now. All better now. See moment of existential crisis over. Go to therapy for that depression. Come back alive. Or just drown out the noise with some liquids or pills or chemicals. Or just live. Whichever works faster. And you stab yourself in the back. Again. Do. It. Again.
Sometimes I wonder...
What did God see in us. Why did He think that we were worth saving?
