Every single life is a tragedy.
If it hasn’t happened yet, it will
Demanding the world’s biggest fiction
A collective suspension of disbelief
And manners
If we each lived life
With that objective knowledge
Nothing would ever be done
We would cry, and hold each other
Or rip each other apart
Limb by limb
Children would stay in cribs, well into adulthood
Or better yet, in the womb
We would starve
We would become extinct
Instead, there is art
Painting
Singing
Writing
Dancing
Loving
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2 comments:
it's the myth of sisyphus. we know the rock will roll down right before we get it to the top, yet we try to get it up there over and over into eternity. why? because we realize the absurdity of it all and choose to live. within the monotony and certainty of sure death, we find life. and yes, it's some of those things you list.
amp
that's an interesting thought. love is art. that's got me thinking...
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