Thunderstruck Free

We throw our arms up to the sky, looking for blessings and cosmic mercy. But all we get is lightning, a mean jolt, a reminder that no one’s giving out any free passes to heaven. There’s no handout for people like us, and nothing’s taking us closer to some dreamt-up Nirvana.

They made us broken, right? They slap us together from busted parts and say, “Now go be whole.” But they don’t hand us a map. It’s a road of potholes, and every damn inch is up to us to crawl through, no shortcut, no lifeline.

Then there are the preachers and the peddlers, self-appointed gatekeepers of “God’s will.” They throw a neat label on “perfection” and peddle it like snake oil. They tell us what to want, making us into soft clay they can bend, squeeze, and shove into little boxes that keep them fat and happy. Perfection isn’t about us. It’s just another way to keep us quiet, bending over backward.

And that electric charge? It shreds us to pieces, blows us apart till we can’t even see ourselves in the mirror. Our faces split into raw chunks, our names nothing but scratched tags in the dirt. But you know what? That’s freedom. That’s where the real magic happens, as once blasted to atoms, you get to pick up the pieces. You get to be what you want—no labels, no leash.

And maybe that’s the closest any of us gets to Nirvana or Hell.