Bandersnatches and Scapegoats

If you drive by Exit 4 on a sunny day and look real careful at the giant highway wall to the left of the entrance ramp, you'll see a delicious spit of graffiti in red, white, and blue that reads “I AM GOD”.

It's mine.
Me and a couple of buds in black tagged it a couple weekends ago, and I forgot to mention it. That's why the title for this is in October again.
We drove long, we walked long, and we sweated cold.

I was adventurous; I set up my art far along the wall, 'cos I wanted it to be seen, while the others kept to the dark and crouched. But they missed the best part; when the headlights of passing cars hit your back and they're so close and do they see me? Do they care enough to call me out? But their indifference is cold and my heart is a pumping furnace of filthy iron excitement, pumping fumes of ashy solid grey to the outside. Surely they would see the glow from this chemical abomination had I not thought to cover my mouth and nose. Exhilarating.
I felt that now I'd finally come to destroy this earth, and I was invincible behind the layers and the flames and under the thick resolve. What's that even mean? They'll ask. Shouldn't have to answer, though.
What's it mean? It means absolutely nothing. The words are nothing, the colours nothing. But it's there, isn't it? I can do this, and I will continue to, until you find familiarity in my deprecation of your standards.

The wall is sticky and horribly rough stone. My right foot was wet to the ankle from where I slipped into a gully. My shoulders burned where my backpack had sat, full and chattering with spray-paint cans. D is for dangerous, they say.

I want to do it again, of course. I want to go bigger, I want to go closer to the cars. I want to make them care.