A Dream or a Lesson?

I'm still a roamer.
I roam, through the city's lights in an endless nocturnal loop of alcohol and bass beats. Please tell me, can you recognize the silhouettes of the lively people I meet in the tiny hours of the night? Show me their faces because I cannot remember. Their eyes are a blur to me, and their voices are so soft.

Everything is immersed in blue liquid, the lights from the cars have blended into the walls of the buildings around me. I feel lost, and I'm talking to you like a madman. If only you could answer me, if only somebody would hear my thoughts and tell me that I'm crazy, that God will never answer me.

I would tell them: "I am not praying, my fellow man. I ask nothing of God. I am talking to him, waiting for an answer. I am searching for a divine conversation with clever answers to my questions. Days never end, I am waiting for the perfect response."
Would that person believe me?
I think not, God. You never show your face, and you never answer. Why should you? Blast our bodies into space, the magnitude of our errors is unmeasurable. We spit around, our feces are everywhere and we cannot clean what we leave behind. I got left behind. Yes, God. Yesterday, I got left behind. Many of my fellow humans have walked in front of me and they have moved on down the road. But I got left behind, forever. I am stuck in an endless loop of sounds and imaginary voices from the past.

I wish I could see the sea right now. The waves would hug me with their coldness, the water would caress my hands and everything would turn into a fantasy. Well, at least just for a moment. When I'm in misery, only water can pull me away from the abyss. I guess you like to give every human some kind of natural consolation. Why can't you give just that one thing that I want? Yes, I know. I promised I would never plea bargain with you again. But please? No, of course not. There's no response.

I glimpsed at the sky and you winked at me. Or did you? Maybe it was just another Sunday hallucination. Sundays are contagious. They slurp around our heads and eat at all the information we gathered throughout the week. Our minds are blank on Sundays. Maybe your mind was blank too, on Sunday. I don't want to be presumptuous, but perhaps if you had not rested on the seventh day of your world creation, maybe we would have turned out to be better. That's just a thought, not a complaint.

Actually, I'm lying. It's convenient of me to blame you now.
This is a complaint. What will you do about it?
You know you cannot punish me. I'm already destroyed.
What are you going to do?!

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