Why are we so fucking low?

We look upwards, but what is it we see? What is it, the sky? 

 

Are we going to live long lives, do you think?

I think we’ll live forever. That’s what I think this afternoon.

 

Are we actually alive? Is this actually it?

All the things we talk about. All the questions we ask.

No one’s going to answer, are they? No one’s interested.

God, maybe. The sky, maybe. The light, maybe.

 

These aren’t questions – they’re prayers. They’re ways of praying. To who? To what?

 

We don’t have to live like this. Things don’t have to be this way.

 

Why are we even talking about this? What’s wrong with us? Why are we so … dissatisfied?

 

We’re ghosts. We’re strangers. Don’t you ever feel like that: a stranger on the earth?

 

How can this world be lifted from us? The weight’s too great … The pressure …

The world, crushing us. Our limbs, so heavy. How can we, like, get up at all? How do we stand upright? How can we get to our feet?

 

Orders of anti-angels. Dark angels. What’s the collective noun?

Hatreds of anti-angels. Horrors of anti-angels. Despairs of anti-angels. Screams of anti-angels. Ghouls …

 

Nothing up there, anyway. There’s nothing we can count on. There’s that light, that’s all. That quivering patch of light.

 

A patch of light. That’s all that’s left. But what does it mean? What does it do?