Puppetry

Secrecy Sundae Topped With Sanctity/Light of the World

Oh. They're at it again. Arguing and ping-ponging back and forth about--NO, ThEy'rE NoT EvEn TrYiNg...oh, am I this pissed? Really? Why should I be so concerned in the lives of people? Is this a side effect of being close to Him? Rapid hatred of how utterly disrespectful humans were if left on Earth too long? Like corpse flowers, they started to stink. Badly.

But the thing was, I didn't hate them. I was only 21, anyway, but in those years I was teetering between hatred and outright indifference...or something much worse. Inside I felt strangely Jesus-Revelation-angry...well, I wasn't that pissed yet, and still defenseless if I could get that mad. At most, all I could do was pray, really. Pray for the people I cared about in this decaying greenhouse of an earth. Besides, no one was supposed to know...that was the grand surprise.

The surprise was very terrifying in all but name and all I could think to do was attempt writing about it, of which my attempts weren't even all that good–maybe, seeing as I could have, for all intents and purposes, be branded as a false prophetess or something since I was born. Was I even trying? What was I destined for? Would I live long enough to fulfill it? And if it was bad, could I avoid it at all costs or something? At least try to stop it? I mean, how fair was any of this? I wanted my mommy back, I wanted a voice...well, an amplifier. For I knew what was coming...something wild, something everyone and even I would and probably already ignored in my desperate attempt for a light in the world...

The next four years were gonna be ugly, whether you believed Trump was Satan Incarnate or otherwise one of his unnamed minions or something of the sort. All we could do was watch, as the world was wrest in fear of the unknown. Well, some of it. The most to the least influential, terrified of what was to come in the next four years of ever-changing germination.  

What the hell? Another dream, eh? I'll write it down later. She seemed to be a lot more tense, rambling about humanity as I sat and listened, listened, listened to her voice, lucidly distracted by her beautiful outfit of white, blue, and a sunlit hue in the right hand corner, large and spookily bright, just like her dress. Large and white and not at all short, rambling casually with her expression quickly snapping this way and that to the point where I wanted to interrupt and ask her to slow down a little, but the art of lucid dreaming had not been taught to me.