The Stars, They Are As

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

The Only Consistent Narrative We Possess Is One That We Share With Every Other Life-form: We Are Born, We Live, And Then We Die.

You Must Dismantle Your Sources, Lest You Do Nothing But Ape The Prejudices Of Others

For We Are All Bound In Stories, And As The Years Pile Up They Turn To Stone, Layer Upon Layer, Building Our Lives.

The Soul Knows No Greater Anguish Than To Take A Breath That Begins With Love And Ends With Grief.