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The 30th Fire: A Tale of Existence

TheGarbageManJul 27, 2018, 7:58:33 PM

Feelings are nothing more than chemical reactions formulating inside our brains. But they are the main driving force behind every single action that we do, whether it is instinctual or premeditated. I try to control them sometimes, but I don't think they are meant to be.

Tired of This

Nothing he wrote made much of a difference these days. Not that it did to begin with.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was running out of ideas, out of ends.

But really, he was just bored.

Nothing exciting in the world, only electronic manipulations to keep him entertained. He yearned for the outdoors, for adventure in a world still unsearched.

Bored of what he kept himself doing. A crime to the resources he consumed.

Those dreams were meant for another generation, not his. His generation was to either open new worlds to explore or destroy the current one and leave an unknown wasteland for the next age of man.

Honestly, either would be fine by him.

His life had been in preparation of sloth, of conformity, of servitude, and then death. As was his father’s life. As was his father's father’s life.

Inside, he felt that it had been changing. Like the generations of man were getting fed up with waiting to die. There had to be more than just breeding and preparing the next generation of soulless golems.

So search he did. All the answers were of either submitting to another set of laws or waiting to die and find out then. Neither answer was satisfactory.

But maybe he was looking to the wrong species for the answer entirely. As if humanity would ever gain the answer to purpose. A purpose is to keep and grow or maintain, but never to shrink.

Never to expand and contract, to breath in and out. The best test is stress, the lack of it makes room to grow.

He’s probably experiencing the same anxiety, that same shared feeling throughout the planet: Something is wrong.

Maybe that search is the ultimate reason for life. The universe seeing itself, expanding itself, transforming itself.

But he’s not expanding fast enough. He’s holding himself back. He hadn’t BREATHED.

A year goes by, and then another. Then everyday becomes everyday and the questions come only at times of panic. And boredom.

Still, the regular writing give him some peace. Some sort of direction. Where it would take him? He didn’t know, and didn’t really care. All he knew is that he was now doing more than nothing.

He knows not every low is the lowest and the highs that follow the highest. He knows how to ride the wave lengths of his brain, how to make the most out of every emotion, every feeling.

It is all meant to be experienced, meant to be taken and absorbed, expelled, encouraged, and never stopped. The time for stopping is when he’s dead.

Then, he can do something else.