Pulpy Machinery

In the desperate hope of survival we cluster together, thinking that being separate together somehow makes us less alone.

In the absence of honest-to-gods truth we pull one another closer, humanity afraid of itself but too alone or lonely or both to really move on.

we are a conundrum of art and pain and coexistence, residing in the space between rationale and fear beating together against some wailing wall constructed in the imaginary hall of human history:

we are a sad sad story of robots with pulpy machinery, denying the very flesh of the over-exuberant muscle that makes me tick for the sake of appearing more reasonable;
and what is that?

what is that factor of yellow-tinged desperation that so sensitively hangs in the balance of the heart of man? I know of no other living creature so afraid to live simply because of the possibilities;

does it scare you that they do not end?
are you concerned that you will lose yourself?

and do you not see that, honestly, that’s kind of the point?
How are you ever going to find who you really are if you never figure out how to lose it first?

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