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Four Page Metaphor
I've often wondered, late at night, what I was doing. Why stay up so late to see a sunrise that my not come? Why stay at all?
It is then I come to realize, again and again, that maybe it isn't all about me. It isn't all about my family, the people I've seen, or humanity itself.
"What is life?" I question, and of course there is no answer. Some questions have no answers, and like humanity has been apt to do, I learn to answer my questions.
Is it in service of gods or deities whose faces we have never seen? Is it in service of those we love, those we see in our daily lives? How important is it for one to be there?
My answer is "Not."
By being scientific about things, we have dehumanized them. The magic of seeing colors seemingly glow in the sky is dismembered into fragmented light
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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