Life is really something weird. We live to complain about life while we don’t dare to think about death, or the aftermath.
We live to on a hedonistic platform, roaring to others as if they were our predators. We are constantly afraid of losing our sense of life, our meaningful and weak complex balance of our selves.
We die each time we dwell on self pity and put the arms below our imagination. We cease our magnitude of thought when our dominion of inner life trembles. We die to live stronger each time we are down.
We die not because life ends but because our ability to create metaphors deteriorates. We leave the world empty hand when our tentacles of care and love are gone, alone, but even then we are fortunate enough to create a deposit of illusion.
We live not knowing how to live better and that’s awkward, because our freedom lives up to our terror.