Threadbare Miracles

The lights are still on, but only because someone you’ll never meet refused to fall apart today.

“Society, you're a crazy breed...”

The world should not work.
Not like this.
Not with how fast it spins and how often it breaks and how no one seems to be at the wheel.

But somehow it does.

Someone you’ll never meet filled up a diesel truck at 3 a.m. in Indiana. That truck carried pallets of lettuce, avocados, and eggs through potholes and rain just so you could grab a breakfast sandwich on your break. And that sandwich? Built by someone who forgot their gloves, is behind on rent, and still smiled when they handed it to you.

You didn’t notice. But that’s the point.

There are packages on porches because some exhausted Amazon driver with a bum knee scanned your order, lifted your vitamins, your book, your last-minute outfit, and dropped it off with no thanks — only the hope you won’t report them for leaving it slightly off-center.

The streetlights worked.
Your coffee brewed.
Your phone signal didn’t drop.

Somehow, it all held.

Doctors showed up to emergency rooms on two hours of sleep.
Teachers printed off worksheets while their own kids sat in underfunded schools.
Garbage got picked up.
Power grids groaned but kept humming.
The grocery store had bananas, strawberries, oat milk — things that should be luxuries, but are now expected.

Because the system — this madness we live in — only works if everyone keeps pretending it’s normal.

We are one broken belt on one delivery truck away from bare shelves.
One missed shift away from a closed pharmacy.
One frustrated nurse away from an ER collapsing in on itself.
One flooded chip plant away from global shutdown.

And yet — the lights stay on.

Zoom out.

Your avocado came from Michoacán.
Your lithium battery from Congo.
Your T-shirt stitched in Bangladesh by hands younger than your little cousin.
Everything is everywhere — and somehow, still here.
A child’s labor becomes your notifications.
A burned field becomes your oat milk.

All of it balancing on a thread of cooperation no one fully understands — and no one’s really steering.

If the wrong semiconductor factory floods, if the wrong bridge collapses, if one continent catches fire — your Tuesday doesn’t happen the way you planned.

And no one tells you that when you're young.
They don’t say:

“Hey kid, this whole thing’s held together by burnt-out humans doing their best not to fall apart.”

They tell you to dream big.
But the real miracle is dreaming at all —
in a world this threadbare, this beautifully, impossibly fragile.

So if you ate today,
if your meds arrived,
if your flight wasn’t canceled,
if you opened a door and the lights turned on...

Thank the quiet army holding it together.

Thank Maria.

She’s the overnight janitor at the hospital.
The one who mopped up the blood outside the ER last December.
The one who cleaned your cousin’s room after they coded —
not because it was easy,
but because it was time.
She saw the coffee spills. The footsteps of grief.
She wiped them clean so no one else had to.

And then she caught the bus.
And then she came back.
And then, again.

The world should not work.
But sometimes,
through quiet mercy and ordinary hands,
it still does.

“Society, have mercy on me / I hope you're not angry if I disagree...”

Because if this cracked your chest a little,
you already know how close the edge really is.

// Scorpio Veil
This isn’t doom.
It’s reverence.
It’s seeing the cracks —
and loving what’s still standing.