the realist
fiction
edward w pritchard
Shoulders bent from carrying their invisible burden their eyes do not gaze to the skies. There the moon and sun are just rock and fire.
Children die, friends vanish and cities disappear occasionally. It means nothing, these things just happen, accept it and move on. Its all just random, calculate-able given interest, time and a profit motive for motivation. Pets are just animals and people just eat and digest matter and decompose.
Time marches on, however the realist has never contemplated if time is real itself. However real or not time mows all down. God, he a figment of our imagination or is it us of his? No matter. It will all be over soon, try not to suffer; that's just an illusion caused by misunderstanding.
No comments:
Post a Comment