I Believe In the Meteorologist

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They told me everything happens for a reason.
Of course they did.
People love a reason
when the answer is
“I don't fucking know.”

They said my anger made me sick.
My thoughts created the pain.
Apparently the universe
keeps a record of my shame.

Funny how the cosmic explanation
always lands on the victim.

Never on the hand that hit.
Never on the mouth that lied.
Never on the person
who actually fucking did it.

If karma is real,
show me the fucking books.
Show me the ledger.
Show me who took notes.

What debt was I carrying?
What sin was underneath?

Or maybe sometimes
shit just happens
without a cosmic receipt.

I'll answer for my choices.
I'll carry what is mine.

But your cruelty
is not my karma.

I watched people get sick
and people said:

“Maybe there's anger inside you.”

Cancer became a character flaw.
Suffering became a lesson.
Every tragedy needed meaning.
Every victim needed a confession.

“Change your thoughts.”
“Raise your vibration.”
“Look within.”

Yeah. Right.

Because apparently
the universe has a fucking opinion
about your tumour.

And if you die—
well, what a beautiful lesson.

What a convenient little God.

I don't believe God
throws lightning bolts.

I don't believe God
opens the taps in the sky.

I believe meteorologists.

Pressure.
Humidity.
Temperature.

“Probably rain.”

I'll take that.

I don't believe
the cosmos has a personality.

I believe in gravity.

Gravity doesn't judge you.
Entropy doesn't punish you.
Physics doesn't care
whether you're good.

Now that's a religion
I can almost get behind.

No cosmic accountant.

No divine score.

No invisible courtroom.

No spiritual customer service.

Just matter.
Energy.
Time.
Cause.
Effect.

And human beings
desperate to turn randomness
into a story.

I have made mistakes.

Plenty.

I've hurt people.
I've been selfish.
I've fucked things up.

I don't need karma
to explain that.

I have a conscience.

It's cheaper.

I'll answer for what I did.

But I won't search my childhood
for the metaphysical reason
someone else treated me like shit.

Your betrayal
doesn't become my lesson.

Your cruelty
doesn't become my vibration.

Your damage
doesn't become my karma.

Sometimes you were just there.

Sometimes they were just cruel.

Sometimes—

somebody was simply an asshole.

If karma is real,
show me the proof.

Until then
I'll stick with consequence.

Bodies malfunction.
People fuck up.
Weather happens.

Sometimes the universe
isn't sending you a message.

Sometimes—

there is no message.

And maybe that's the part
you can't fucking stand.

No cosmic plan.
No divine score.

Just this strange little universe
obeying its laws—

while we keep inventing gods
to explain the rain.

I believe in gravity.

I believe in consequence.

And yes—

I believe in the meteorologist.

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They told me everything happens for a reason. Of course they did. People love a reason when the answer is “I don't fucking know.” They said my anger made me sick. My thoughts created the pain. Apparently the universe keeps a record of my shame. Funny how the cosmic explanation always lands on the victim. Never on the hand that hit. Never on the mouth that lied. Never on the person who actually fucking did it. If karma is real, show me the fucking books. Show me the ledger. Show me who took notes. What debt was I carrying? What sin was underneath? Or maybe sometimes shit just happens without a cosmic receipt. I'll answer for my choices. I'll carry what is mine. But your cruelty is not my karma. I watched people get sick and people said: “Maybe there's anger inside you.” Cancer became a character flaw. Suffering became a lesson. Every tragedy needed meaning. Every victim needed a confession. “Change your thoughts.” “Raise your vibration.” “Look within.” Yeah. Right. Because apparently the universe has a fucking opinion about your tumour. And if you die— well, what a beautiful lesson. What a convenient little God. I don't believe God throws lightning bolts. I don't believe God opens the taps in the sky. I believe meteorologists. Pressure. Humidity. Temperature. “Probably rain.” I'll take that. I don't believe the cosmos has a personality. I believe in gravity. Gravity doesn't judge you. Entropy doesn't punish you. Physics doesn't care whether you're good. Now that's a religion I can almost get behind. No cosmic accountant. No divine score. No invisible courtroom. No spiritual customer service. Just matter. Energy. Time. Cause. Effect. And human beings desperate to turn randomness into a story. I have made mistakes. Plenty. I've hurt people. I've been selfish. I've fucked things up. I don't need karma to explain that. I have a conscience. It's cheaper. I'll answer for what I did. But I won't search my childhood for the metaphysical reason someone else treated me like shit. Your betrayal doesn't become my lesson. Your cruelty doesn't become my vibration. Your damage doesn't become my karma. Sometimes you were just there. Sometimes they were just cruel. Sometimes— somebody was simply an asshole. If karma is real, show me the proof. Until then I'll stick with consequence. Bodies malfunction. People fuck up. Weather happens. Sometimes the universe isn't sending you a message. Sometimes— there is no message. And maybe that's the part you can't fucking stand. No cosmic plan. No divine score. Just this strange little universe obeying its laws— while we keep inventing gods to explain the rain. I believe in gravity. I believe in consequence. And yes— I believe in the meteorologist.

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