Conceived as insignificant specs only to grow into insignificant people only to die an insignificant death.
What reason is there if there is not love and lust and mother and sister, brother, schoolroom, first kiss, rebellion, first smoke, failure, defeat, misery and repeat?
Live our lives we must and poems we must write and songs we must sing because soon it will be over and the sting of insignificance will sting!
Just as we are born into life, so too do we rise merely to perpetuate our species, like a Darwinian clusterfuck of futile inevitabilities. Born. Shall live. Shall die. Was born. Lives. Shall die. Was born. Did live. Dying...
And for what reason but passion do we live? For a full life is no less empty than one of suffering when compared at the knelling of death bells. There is nothing in this life.
Nothing but us
And that which is of us.
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