The Sun

    Summer is here but I hate the sun.  If I could, I would stay up all night, just to escape the morning.  Morning people are always so busy, always running around, getting things done.  Sunny people, fake happiness.  Getting in your face, never shutting up, trying to sell you something when all you want to do is sleep.  I wish they'd all stop trying.  Let me rest in peace, deep in the night with the soothing moon, where I belong.  There you'll find me, subdued in all my rage, resting quietly in my bed, going places in my head.

    The sun is like a dog that won't stop barking.  It demands your attention, burning through the senses until it finally has you.  Once it happens, there's no looking back.  You become another drone in the solar cycle of machinery.  Then you get pious, critical of anything different, a member of the clergy at your local church.  Every Sunday you go there, medicating your spirit as sunlight illuminates the stained-glass windows.  All you've witnessed is conformity, none of the miracles your religion was built on.

    Let's just put out the light, blow it all to Hell.  It's going to blow up anyway.  All we're doing is prolonging the inevitable.  We the destroyers of planets are surely capable of destroying stars.  When the sun eats the Earth, it won't remember the many creatures who dared to harness its power.  It won't remember the morning people.  Only the curious few who looked away at the night, deep into space, where his Majesty destined to travel.