It breathes

Life spans the earth in infinitesimal matter raging across the wind’s back dipping through the earth’s core swallowed by the carioles that pushes and pulls the tides. Day’s end is marked by dust and night’s end is marked by dawn. The roster crows for he knows not the light of day or the light of dusk.

What lives. . .

Do we live? Do we exist? We conceptualize so many other things, could it be possible that we conceptualize our own lives? if I thought that a sharp knife through someone's heart would hurt, then if it happened to me, would I not say ouch as a reaction? What do you think?

What gives. . .

Not me, the capitalist pig I am. I take, and create, and most importantly generate. I generate other human beings, other dollars, other cents. I accumulate like an old dusty attic, never truly inheriting the worth of all that I’ve seen and heard. But making a deposit on history and withdrawing from what I’m to be paid, not what I have saved.

What is. . .

We are not. We are ideas, figments of our own castration that we all have suffered, as we’ve been severed from the innocence we’re only entitled to as children. No gender biases here, just species. Sleeping, eating, fucking, procreating, lactating, sleeping, eating fucking, procreating, lactating. Do I speak in circles? It sure as hell feels like I’m traveling a straight path. History repeats itself, but I won’t!! Instead, I’ll do something blindly similar and repeat after history.