journal.

all heathens with an identity greater than themselves.

a collection of humanity with a worth of no more than specs of biological activity on some distant planet, what worth are we to this all? what worth are we, our conscience? a mere idea, this grandeur, a mere illusion. but man, does this illusion feel better than all that is out there. all that is out there for which we occupy nothing worth more than a grain of salt does, dissolved and indistinguishable in a horizonless sea.

for us to exist and ponder no more and no less is the most forgiving part of our sustainability. for us to turn a blind eye, to search for as much only as the horizon offers, is in our well being. for, awareness is too much a burden, you think not?
a pathetic, animalistic wish it is, sure, to wish for ignorance, to wish for stupidity. but to believe that animals willingly choose to ignore, is comforting. that maybe every breathing being suffers as much as us, collectively feels a certain weight of its existence, same as us, is comforting.

as a humanity, a smart race, we believe we are. destined for greatness, we believe we are. a false hope for everything and anything because we have conquered a small pebble in the great expanse of the unforgiving universe.

heathens given a sense of identity is perhaps like digging one's own grave.

[a/n: Alessandro Giorgi's works]