Sunday

 Sunday morning. No breakfast, no TV, no radio. You go to worship today. You go to church today.
 You take an hour to pray to a God that isn't there, and give money to a church that doesn't love you. You shake hands with the neighbors that scare you and wish peace upon their families. You come home smelling of stale air and wafer crackers.It's worth feeling dirty if it gets a cloud in heaven reserved in your name. There goes another sunday. There goes the best day of the week that your God gave to you. Gone forever. Time to go to work for him.
 You sit there at your desk, waiting for happiness to come and grab you by the wrists and ankles. Nothing can convince you that that your savior is a fraud. Nothing can convince you that your heroes are just men in suits.Look at what you've done in your time of patience, and compare it to what your urges would have made you do. It's a wasted experience, your life of tranquility. You sit there at your desk, thinking you're doing the world a favor. Push those papers, read that memo, drink that coffee. As long as you believe that it matters, nothing can convince you to stop.
 Sitting in traffic, you think about your children. They're your mark on this blue marble. They're why you're satisfied with selling insurance. Running a red light doesn't make you feel better, but it keeps that pulse going to get you to the door.
 You kiss your wife, but don't stop to talk.All you want to do is take a shit. You sit down on the toilet, and look around for something to read. You'll settle for a box of matches. You start lighting them and throwing them into the tub. Each one you let burn for a little longer. Each match burns closer to your finger, until the second to last match, which inflames the tips of your nails. It hurts. It hurts good. 
Look at the head of your last match. Some boy in Indonesia made this perfected stick of power with his little fingers. He has more talent than you'll ever know. Yet here it sits in your hands, doing nothing but burning and ending. Is that fair? Is it fair that his life's work will have no significance other than entertaining a salesman's bowel movement? No. This match will be different. This match will justify that child's existence.
 The shower curtains make a crackle as they burn. Smoke starts to engulf the bathroom, and you feel woozy. That last sound you hear is your skull hitting the sink. That sound echoes until you wake up in a hospital.
 Your home is gone, your kids are dead, and your wife is in critical condition. Where is the church that you gave all of that hard earned money? Where are your neighbors, who you blessed every Sunday? Where is your God?
Probably in Indonesia.