Saturday, November 29, 2008
The living dead
Does pure happiness exist?
Or does our capacity for it wither as we mature, assimilate, and diminish?
Is it lost with our innocence?
Does our collective conscience ever clear? It seems we're always working for somebody else's ends.
Must we deaden our senses and escape to unreality to have some peace of mind?
Is melancholy and sadness inevitable?
Original sin, original intent?
It seems I'm always making up for something left undone, attempted, placed aside, forgotten, or otherwise. I can't shake this chainmail suit of guilt that's draped about my soul!
How does one live with their self? How does one know they're right? Settle and accept.
False friends aren't much fun.