Poetry or Rambling? You decide.

This is our lives:

Dividing ourselves between everything there ever was and everything that will be. Chopping our flesh into little pieces and sprinkling it over the drooling jaws of the hungry crowds, knowing it will never be enough. Choosing one child out of ten born from the womb of our blood and feed it knowing the other nine will die. And knowing that whether we feel the pain of their deaths or not they will come back to haunt us until our minds are obliterated and absorbed by the one child that did not die, the one that will survive us and carry our failiures on into the future, the one that will carry even more dust than we have gathered. Ever since the first strike of lightning that gave life to that which was dead we have carried the dust and pain and blood of the nine children.

There comes short moments where nothing of this matters. Moments where our minds are released from our forms and poured into another's. A form where our presence is only drifting and our responsabilities slim, one that will carry his own dust while we borrow his existance in the world and peer out through his eyes, hiding, amazed at how beautiful living can be when looked at from the outside.

This is roleplaying. This is movies, music, books and art. This is games and sports and for some people work. This is murdering and stealing. This is sex, and this is love.

And according to most people, perhaps even me, this is what kills us.