God was a lizard once.
Not metaphorical. A literal sun-blasted bastard clinging to a rock in Arizona, licking his eyes, waiting for the wind to whisper a better plan. People used to pray to him. Now they scroll. Worship got an upgrade. The altar’s in your pocket, and it’s running low on battery.
The stars? Just busted jukeboxes blinking neon Morse code. They don't play music anymore, just loop static and ghost songs from civilizations that drank too much and died laughing. Every constellation’s a gravestone. Every shooting star’s just another piece falling off the machine.
There’s a god for everything now. A god of hangovers. A god of dead chargers. A god of overpriced rent and late-night panic attacks. A god of tweets that never land and the silence that follows. I met them all. Most of them smell like vape pens, broken promises, and expired dreams. None of them take calls. They’re too busy swiping left on humanity.
And still we kneel. Still we light candles and hope the check doesn’t bounce. Still we whisper names into the dark, as if the dark gives a shit. As if it hasn’t already sold your secrets to a marketing firm in Delaware.
I asked the lizard once, “Why me?”
He blinked slow, crawled into a beer can, and died.
That’s the holy answer: because. Because it’s chaos. Because you exist and they didn’t ask you to. Because the universe is drunk and your name was on the bar tab. No refunds. No manager. Just a receipt written in blood and stardust.
But here’s the trick, kid. You dance anyway. You scream into the void with your chest cracked open and your middle finger raised like a flag. You set yourself on fire just to light the path forward. You laugh too loud, love too hard, and make art from the ashes of your worst day.
Not because it changes anything.
But because it’s your fucking turn at the mic.
And maybe, just maybe, the next god to crawl out of the desert will remember your name.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
