The earth shrugs, and a fault line splits a city in two.
A rock, smooth from centuries of wind and rain, decides today is the day it falls, crushing a man who never missed Sunday mass.
A wildfire starts in the bones of a dead tree, the wind carrying its laughter across acres of homes and history.
Somewhere in the ocean, something ancient rolls over in its sleep, and the tides rise just enough to erase a coastline.
No explanation. No reason. Just the universe twitching in its sleep.
And then there are the other things. The ones written in history books with footnotes that lead nowhere.
The bodies that vanish.
The wars that start because someone blinked at the wrong time.
The lone gunman that wasn’t so alone.
The flag that was still there, an anti-gravity, star bangled banner still waving.
The numbers that don’t add up, the footage that disappears, the coincidences that stack too neatly to be random but too scattered to be anything else.
We shake our fists at the sky, but the sky never bothers to look down.
And then there’s this—the real question, the only one that matters to me.
Jack.
Why Jack?
Not the dealer, not the smug piece of shit pushing poison for profit.
Not the ones who make money off of death while dressed in white coats.
Not the fucking grinning death merchants in boardrooms, approving a new batch of slow, quiet execution.
But Jack?
Why him? Why that night?
Why that second, that breath, that choice?
The tectonic plates shift and ask questions but they don’t answer.
The fire roars, but it doesn’t explain.
The rock doesn’t whisper a reason as it falls.
I wake up every day, expecting the answer to be written on the ceiling, in the cracks in the paint, in the coffee, in the way the wind moves the leaves.
Anything.
I don’t even need it to be the full answer. Just a hint.
But all I get is silence.
And silence is the loudest fucking thing in the world.
But, somehow today I am temporarily at peace, it may not be the answer, but fuck, at least it’s not another question.
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