Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.
I find you all so very peculiar, running around, asking questions bigger than yourselves.
"What is the meaning of life?"
"Why am I here?"
"Why do bad things happen to good people?"
It doesn't seem to occur to any of you that it is not your place to ask.
We all come here, and I use 'here' lightly to more adhere to your capability of perception than out of any sense of accuracy in the words, with our roles.
Simply because you cannot name the role you play, you assume that means that it is not engrained into the very depths of your soul, that I could not find you based on the screaming duty encoded into your skin, that everything is made in accordance to human.
So really, in the end, it's simply repetitive to ask.
But it remains to be what you persist in doing- all the while, twirling your necks and whirring your toys across expanses to find even the slightest hint of reason.
It is not enough for you to reach, fingertip to puny fingertip, along every corner of "your" planet. You must push further. There is metal orbiting your sphere and further still you go, until my galaxy is littered with your creations.
You endure in dragging your nose along my cosmos, leaving the mark of human stench. And yet, your race continues to not reach my list.
It is not just what you mistake as need (since you are selfish and needy and take all that you can), but also what you want and decide you deserve that can reek of simplistic foolery and parasitic existence (And I cannot determine which is of worse quality, for both remind me that I am alone in the trenches of an utterly useless and childish plane).
Disgustingly curious, meddlesome, the itch under my nail. That is your kind- And you!
You are an ant. It is your nature to scurry along in lines of chaos and trail after your wasting fixations. Barbaric. You cannot help it.
You are made lesser and thoughtless, but for all your faults (repulsive, messy beings bottled with unnecessary churning of mind and chemical that you are), you make exceptional cuisine.
I find that I do so enjoy a pizza so thick I can drink pools of grease along the line of crust.
To think I can find this in only one (crude and broken and filthy) place!
This deep-dish dough with sauce and slices of pepperoni exists in your far off corner of a spot in a globe and it's so extraordinarily human. Because humanity makes pizza, but I cannot claim to know of anyone else who does.
Humanity has made a name for itself through this incident and blasting of particles until they swelter to the point of mutation (because you change the particles to make what you want- a micro version of the grander scale on which you mutilate surroundings to better appease solely you).
So maybe this is what you add to the order, but you don't see that. You eat what may be your greatest accomplishment, smearing the sauce of success all over your silly little chins and try to think out your contribution to the universe.
Maybe your accomplishment is really an incidental idiosyncrasy from far back in your history and your usefulness has been fading ever since, making you eternally obsolete.
But even when you existentially matter less than your hubris allows you to acknowledge, I warn you. Do not try to drag me into it. I do not like you and I do not like your kind.
I find that some of you squirming, archaic organelles cannot help but to screech your needs right at me; babbling, wrong assumptions forming demands. And you'll lift your fragile skulls along airways, sunlight burning miniscule holes into your retinas, calling for me.
I do not come when called, but when it is time.
It's toddler's play to bear my arm across your skin when universe is ready for me to perform my duty. Funny, how no matter which of you scream and plead or laugh and follow, you all do the same thing. You reach an end and want to know what comes next.
Didn't I tell you to stop asking questions bigger than yourself?