We are such fragile creatures. At any moment, a simple twist of fate could eliminate our existence. One wrong turn, one second more, or less, and that is the end. Some people take all sorts of chances, and some people are as careful as can be, and both may end up sharing a room at a retirement center somewhere near the everglades. The man who jumped out of a plane on D-day, next to the man who won’t take a plane to Hawaii. We are so fragile, and fate is so fickle.
Our flesh is so soft, and so penetrable. Fire, metal, blunt force, all of these things will destroy us, given the proper application of such. What a disappointment, to so easily be made a lemming. We are all simply walking bubbles on a giant wrap, waiting to be popped. Think what you like, believe in your gods, in your fate, but remember the anthill.
Above all, remember the dutiful ants, that work, and are crushed, and respawn, and continue on. Kick down their hill, and they will rebuild, and they will find a new queen, and the hill will continue on, and there will be new workers. Do ants mourn? Do they commemorate their dead in some way that we as humans cannot see? Or do they simply fall, and become replaced, much as we do, except for the elaborate rememberances in some cases.
We are naught but individualized ants. Some of us are clever ants, and some of us are stupid ants. In the end, we all do whatever it is we do as part of the group, whether it is nothing, or it is something. We are all the same. Why? Because we die. Build all the statues you like, write me in a text book or two, show my film, over and over, and use my formulas to teach children spatial mechanics, and in the end, it ends. You are still dead.
All you can do, is hope it doesn’t hurt. Too badly.
Yes, the old ones, the sad ones, who die in the homes, who die in their sleep, they, are the lucky ones.
The rest of us. Will die screaming, or trying to.
Reality is a bitch.