Debris Of Deluded Divinity

For centuries,

you begged the skies

for signs you’re not alone.

You pointed telescopes at the void,

called it wonder.

Wrote fiction about aliens,

then denied their possibility

in your textbooks.

Turns out,

truth was falling through your atmosphere

in plain sight.

Not angels.

Not messages.

Just your blueprints—

RNA. DNA.

Every fucking alphabet

that ever spelled “life”

was carved

on space debris

older than your myths.

You are not beings of soil.

You are crash-landed consequences.

Cosmic errors

that survived impact.

You colonized a planet

before you even knew

what gravity was.

Then drew borders,

waged wars,

sang anthems

on a land

you never had permission to touch.

And now you talk of legacy.

Of purpose.

Of being destined.

You worship gods

etched in collective delusions

who’d piss themselves

if a real meteor walked in.

Because meteors don’t do sermons.

They don’t need disciples.

They show up,

shatter realities,

and exit —

leaving no room for second comings.

So the next time

you whisper sweet nothings to your ego,

I dare you to remind yourself:

You are not divine.

You are not chosen.

You are not even important.

You are a biological anomaly

on a rock borrowed from chaos,

a meteorite mutation

having a midlife crisis,

inventing languages and faiths to justify its existence.

You are the extraterrestrial

you were busy priding your genius in the hopeful discovery of.