That We Are A Small Ruptures Of Pain

Photo by: James Nachtwey

That we kill, morally or literally, those who love to live without regard to the vocabulary and questions of “the Hereafter” or any other imagined form of life after death;
At the same time, we force to live, try to save, prevent of, etc., etc.
who accepts death, walks to it, decides it mentally, or his body decides it, with satisfaction, by extinction.
We want to heal, to revival, to linger,
to do not allow anyone shakes the mountain of illusion that they begin building it when we are young, the adults, then we, with all “devotion”, reach it to the highest peaks,
“the eternity”.

*)*

As I admit that, recently, they have begun spontaneously to cutout, those faint lines that connect me with life.
that I passed the thirty-two years old, and it frightens me to think about staying alive (so as not to exaggerate and say until tomorrow), until forty
about seven years and a half of forcibly waking up, and sleeping hardly,
of looking for,
a crumb of illusion to live for it,
a shadow of a smile from the heart on the lips, even for a moment.

*(*

About seventy-six months,
Three hundred and ninety weeks,
Two thousand and seven hundred and thirty days,
Sixty-five thousand and five hundred twenty hours
Three million nine hundred and thirty-one thousand and two hundred, seconds
Two hundred and thirty-five million, eight hundred and seventy-two thousand moments, between me and forty,
every moment
is a sliver that professionally splits a square micron of heart.

*)*

That life is just slow cancer its centre, its limits are the heart
every moment eats, a cell,
a square micron,
and there is, in the middle of all this elegant ruin, the love,
those who love you.
love you, despite the feeling fact of your near demise.

*(*

What is exactly going on?
I mean,
how much ruin, mouldiness and wearing out, can we see, if we could, by default, get out of the body of who live until eighty, for example,
a visual substance named the self, or even its fossil remains?

*)*

That we are small tears of pain, existed in this great void that called the universe;
and there are trees, though, all this
and a tiger lays down every day after a heavy hunting meal under their shadow, the trees
birds on the branches,
bees,
pollen,
cells,
chlorophyll,
and the miracle of photosynthesis,
that there are organisms that breathe all other organisms’ carbon, to give them the life, the oxygen,
while we, as human beings, have not sufficed that only our breathing (as seven billions of human beings) is the first source of the relative imbalance between carbon and oxygen in an atmosphere’s universe,
but on top that, every day we cut thousands of them, trees, to farm the land with carbon emissions,
factories, heaters, cars, bombs, fires, wars, reactors, etc.
then with all seriousness, we prevent smoking in closed places, in order to ensure the lungs’ safety of the non-smokers.

* (*

That they are, trees, the only living beings that never die, except by an action, a defect, from the outside of nature system.

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