sometimes the universe licks up the lid
lifts the roof off your little life and lets you peek out into the giant world
reminds you that you are operating on a level two or three or a hundred floors below it
in your little dollhouse and around your little lego city
all of your questions just scribbles on plastic paper to keep you occupied
your worries a footnote in a resource management video game
that the depths of your soul and truth and evil go all, all the way down
you might have doubted
the coincidence of particles and reality and the meaninglessness
the pond scum surface level meaning of meaningless
your eyes widen and you try to capture, try to grow to meet the size of it all
at least to become a rat and not a flea
and you feel like you've been distracted, head down in the illusion, in the game roleplaying as a human being
and then the lid drops. your head doesn't fit in your doorways and you can see the plastic sheen on the sidewalk you step on
and you can't ever possibly believe that and but: you will go back yo your normal life. you cannot carry this with you all the time. you will set it down and you will forget.
all you can do the best you can do is angle your plastic neck up, that the next time it comes around you will be better able to see. that each hill you climb might be one leading there again
and then you drop your phone on the bathroom floor while you're typing into the feels program on tilde dot town and it's gone.
