On futile endeavours

In truth, we are all a little bit more, and a little bit less, than human. 

Something had changed. I had. The world was still the same, in uncommunicative shambles; and yet, I strove to break through the ever-glowing beacon of bullshit. You win some, you lose some; and I found myself in the midst of a losing streak. 

I didn’t care. I had been cosmically created with an innate sense of objective cynicism. I could see, I could ignore, I could infer. I gave up, hoped, and shunned, simultaneously. I tried to imagine, at times, what it would look like, if we knew how to talk to each other. Too futile a thought to even entertain. We are made in the image of someone who’s meant to go forward. We live in the image of something that never will. That is our fate. Curiosity, inquiry, boredom. Repeat. 

Supple skin for a soul that’s on auto pilot. Default settings are the hardest to change; they appear to make sense. They seem logical, thought out, they fit. Within a translucent box of histories whose seeming sanity cloud it. You cannot look inside. There’s nothing in there but nonsense. It’s Alice running wild in the wonderland they built for her. Be careful with those vials; your head might grow to extraordinary proportions.

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