I lament over the loss of simple human compassion as i sit and i scroll and i rot on a sea of endless hatred and cruelty
As i gaze upon apophis’ desolate waters i ask myself how i got here, and all i can think of is hubris
I long to be free from the ocean. I wish to soar and fly like Icarus among the clouds, looked on by my Daedalus fondly. But Icarus always falls, and so will I, dragged down with my own decaying flesh and bone into the inky abyss of reality
Save me, i whisper. Save me, we all shriek. But the world is not kind; it is not caring. We all must fall prey to the creatures of dark and we will all resign ourselves to the fate of hitting the bottom of the ocean, laying among the seamounts and their own form of smog as chains wrap around our wrists, our ankles, our necks. And we let it, because what else can we do? Oh, but if only we were to realize that our flesh is not moss, and our bones are not driftwood, and that if we would only remember how to move it could be
But alas, we do not remember. We remember nothing of blue skies and yellow suns. We only know of the smoke of the sea, choking our throats and our vision. We remember the way it felt to give up and we only felt that relief of no longer fighting anymore. We are alone, but we are united in loneliness. They say that to become god is the loneliest achievement of all, but it is even lonelier to stop trying.
