If only, if only.
Sometimes I feel like I can actually sense my humanity slipping away--the cinder block that's sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
I once read that if one does not fear death, then they fear life itself. But I don't think that's necessarily true. I don't fear death, and I most certainly don't feel afraid of life. Who knows if my heart is lying to me, though?
The heart is such a treacherous little brute, willing to feed you any lie you'll believe just to get what it wants. It shouldn't be trusted, and yet we fall an ill-fated victim every time. Is logic of any more use, though? What good can a clever wit and a good mind do, when no one plays by the book any more.
The rules are no longer rules, but merely guidelines-- a suggestion some old wise fart provided for the few who took the road less traveled by. But I'm getting off track here.
Suppose that I didn't care if we all lived or died. Does it make me any less human to prefer the company of a book over that of a real person sometimes?
Am I any worse off for dreaming of a better world?