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Dear Universe,

I want a refund. I was supposed to be a revolutionary not a romantic.

I know sometimes the terms have coincided. This go round they have not, and I would like to address this unfortunate matter.

I want to smash barriers, not break hearts.
I want to lead troops, not tremble at the knees when kissed.
I want to speak my mind, not be resigned to a life of good cheer.

You put in my checklist: sturdy build, intelligent, tall.

You did not include courage, diligence or humility.

You saddled me with injustice, hate, poverty, powerlessness and consciousness. You did not guarantee hope, faith or love. To question you at all means I have acknowledged that there is a higher order to things.

You might, if stars and atoms and anti-matter could speak, you might say what right have you to question me, The great I that then made you, lesser being?

Honestly, I would reply there is none. But neither is there yet my non-existence.

Universe, I ask you like the Greek poets would ask the Muses, to fix this thing you have so carelessly created. If there is a higher order, then there should be a higher purpose. If something small may even begin to fathom something large a connection has been forged.
That connection, however impossible to define, exists. It is by that bond I demand a restitution.

Recreate me. I was supposed to be a revolutionary, not a romantic. And we both know it.