Bombing Mars and Flowers

I've found a piece of text I wrote a few years ago. I know I was trying to express something, that there was something behind it, but I cannot recall what it was. Perhaps you can?

“Repeat”, the message said, “They started bombing Mars!”. I thought at the time I was just a young guy from Arkansas, trapped in an elevator to hell with all the buttons pressed. As bad as the metaphor was, however, I couldn't shake the idea that was advancing on me from multiple directions, all at once. I thought that maybe this time it would end a little better than the last time, when a fleet razed our beloved… but still, it made no sense to me at all when I checked out of that old motel in the morning, leaning on my newly broken cane as though there was no tomorrow. And indeed - there was no tomorrow, only today, and even that was just an empty shell of what was, a dream not dreamt in full but like in half waking hours when the sun is warm and you feel yourself pulled away by Morpheus, but all of a sudden, a mosquito bites. What was the bite this time I wasn’t sure. Still, there’d be hell to pay this time.

I suddenly came up with an idea: I’d go to the market and buy some flowers. “Hey”, I thought, “It worked before”. Flowers were something I admired, but only in pictures and paintings, as the real things gave me insufferable headaches. Going outside proved to be more difficult than I suspected. 

Bombing Mars and Flowers