#human existence

I feel some kind of powerful way about this that I can't quite parse.

Grief, maybe. Dreadful knowing. Immeasurable loneliness.

We are the aftermath of destruction of everything. Cut off. Sealed beneath a scar in fabric of the real universe. We are a festering wound. Unable to be seen - reached - beyond that membrane. Our begining arose from a horrific ending. Made from the scattered ashes of crushed universes - torn apart molecule by molecular to be our building blocks. Their tragedy is our birth.

I have sat in night and stared at stars and imagined it to be freedom - the false lid of a perfect sky of daytime removed to reveal the truth - an endless vast expanse of possibility. Yet, it is a jar inside a jar. We cannot even begin to imagine the truth of the world beyond our bubble.

It makes a kind of sense when even birth is an act of violence - tearing of flesh and breaking of bone - and we had no say in it but still our existence is insistent on it. Never free of the violence.

To eat... I heard even mushrooms scream in their own way - warning vast networks when we pluck them. Yet we can't exist but through consumption - destroying to sustain.