Alone in a dusty motel room
Pondering life behind the smoky veil of my swiftly burning cigarette.
In my lap I hold the stories of God, written by men.
I wonder aloud, "is this all there is?"
To think that my life, my will, is so universally inconsequential that it can be dictated through the yellowing, decaying pages of mortal control gone mad.
Religion is a sham.
The sooner one comes to this epiphany, the better off one is.
Wars waged for cities deemed holy. Blood shed in the name of holiness. Lives sacrificed in order to become one with the holy "father".
Men are just points of light pierced through the black canvas of existence. And eventually, every light goes out.
Each light is extinguished as another light flips on somewhere else.
That's all we are. Calls on an ethereal switchboard waiting to be patched through to greater things we cannot even begin to imagine.
This answers my question.
This is all there is. This is not all there is. Here lies the unsolvable paradox.
So as my cigarette burns out and I'm left in the dark, physically and mentally, I prepare to return to the land of dreams where I may one day see the face of god at the same time I see the face of nothing.
Alone in a dusty motel room.