Today I awoke with the thought of being consumed by fire, a primitive form of social hierarchy in the faced of false superiority, in the form of something resembling power.
To be the Sun.
I essentially am the walking Sun, the people who solicit me come with either a match or gasoline.
However, the real Sun has now risen.
The rays that broke through mildly closed curtains, lay warm on my cheek.
Like the fingers of a loving god reminding me I am not yet great, but essential to the very fabric woven around pandemonium’s eyes so it stay blind long enough, when the Sun finally burns out, it will see nothing and be consumed by it’s own destructive thoughts. I solemnly declare that I am not the sun nor moon; I was the light to illuminate.
Can’t you see me?