Bleak, Uncertain, Beautiful...

Storm

In the beginning, there was nothing.

Then, all of a sudden, there was something. Many things, in fact.

No one seems to be able to settle on how exactly. There are hundreds, no, thousands of people who devote their entire lives to finding out exactly what happened, when it happened, how, why, and whatever many other questions there are or may be. One might argue the smart people are the ones who do that.

Others believe everything was just willed into existence by some all-powerful being whose motives are unknown, but they have to be good, right? Why create a whole universe for fun? It's not like people do things like that in their own heads out of sheer boredom.

I'm neither, really. I lack the brains to think about why everything exists without spiralling into a deep hole of anxiety and depression regarding my place on earth, and for some reason, the whole spirituality and religion thing never hooked me. Not knocking either side at all, I commend everyone on those sides who can decide what makes sense to them and that's it. My brain just isn't exactly.... wired that way, I suppose.

I know, such a unique, quirky guy, right?

"That's enough thinking," I say to myself as I light yet another cigarette and take a puff. My parents would fucking kill me if they knew what I've been up to since I left, which is to say, absolutely nothing of note. I've accepted my place in life, I'll exist, do what I can, and that's it.

"...straight to heaven..! Lift, lift your fists, all the way up, straight to heaven, straight to God," I hear the street preacher say as I pass him on the street. I start choking on the smoke as I attempt, and fail, to stifle a chuckle. Does he want us to worship God, or bash His Holy Head in? I can't seem to figure it out, and I don't get an answer either, as he begins to sing something resembling Amazing Grace, but the lyrics and melody are a bit different. Maybe my memory of the song is a little hazy though, it's been a long time since I was last even in a church.

Now that I think about it, those street preachers have become much more prominent lately. You used to really only see them on TV, waving the signs proclaiming the end times or some shit like that. Now it feels like every time you turn a corner, someone is on some pseudo-missionary mindset where the end of the world is coming. It's kinda worrying, now that I think about it. Lots of crazy things happen every day, everyone is warning us about some catastrophic event that is close to happening. Maybe the street preachers are right. God, I hope not.

It may seem selfish, but I don't want the world to end in my lifetime. I don't even want it to get near ending. Is that wrong of me to think? My head starts spinning, my conscience asking rapid-fire questions like I'm being interrogated by an auctioneer. I go to take a puff of my cigarette to try and calm down, but burn my lips before I realize I've run out. I could grab another if I wanted to, but I'm really trying to....

"Ah, fuck it, the world's ending. What's one more cig?"

Something finally broke through my conscience's rainstorm. Funny how the one thing to get me out of that funk was the habit I've been trying, and failing, to kick since I started. Things start slowing down as I light another, and I take joy in the small victory that is successfully lighting the cigarette first try. No destroying the tip of my thumb this time. Maybe that's a sign that this 3rd cigarette today was meant to be.

Actually, maybe we're pretty set for the case of an apocalyptic scenario. I mean, think about it. We're fuckin' paranoid about everything nowadays. Hell, even the gas station I pass by on my walk home constantly blares warnings against the homeless people who sometimes offer to pump gas. Even middle-aged moms and tinfoil-hat-wearing wackos are warning everyone about cancerous 5G towers or some bullshit. We have thousands of TV shows, movies, books, everything about various end-of-the-world scenarios. I think we as a race are pretty set for whatever life decides to throw at us. I can take hope in that, I guess.

"What about you?"

What about me. What. About. Me. What a question, that is. I honestly don't know. The auctioneer in my head has reverted to a common magazine interviewer. The end is a long time coming, at least I hope. So maybe I don't have to worry about whether I'm prepared or not. Maybe I don't have to think about how I'll give up early so I don't have to make whatever tough choices the end of everything will give me.

"A long time coming, indeed," I say out loud to myself, looking at the smog-filled sky and wishing I could go back and see the stars I saw as a child. I blink back the few tears that begin to fill my eyes, take another puff of my cigarette, and shrug the worries away. I can think another time.