It’s not, no matter how hard it tries to convince us that it is. After all, we are products of love. And of course we all belong. We have society. We have each other. We have longing to fill emptiness, we have hate to give meaning to love. We have constants. We know that night follows day. We know we breathe oxygen and release carbon dioxide.
And aside from that, we’re given more. We have instincts. We know, without concrete proof. Belief? I’d rather call it insistence. We look at the sky and map out our futures with our little constellations. We predict. And we plan. We give meaning. And we rise and fall like the tides, we bask in the moonlight which isn’t true light… but anything that tints us in silver is okay. So if the world is our enemy how come I never want it to stop turning? And if the world is so evil then why is there poetry in wind blowing through trees, to comets, to asteroids?
One night I stood by the sea thinking that it would simply be an inverted valley, had it not been filled with salt water.
