I dread the thought of the things I love- not people, I mean things, such as activities, hobbies, material posessions- mocking me in the face of disaster or tragedy; namely, in the face of death. in such a time, what good is the art I've collected, or the old cameras I like to use, or the tapes I enjoy, or any of these other insignificant pastimes? in the face of death, they all mock me. they laugh at me.
thoughts like this make me sick to my stomach. or, rather, reality checks like this. and of course they make me sick, they're supposed to. reality and truth are uncomfortable things. instead of turning to the existing reality and truth, we prefer to make up our own; and not only is this now consciously accepted by society, but lauded, actually encouraged.

I realize I'm not saying anything new. but, neither are you, or anyone else. there is ever only one, simple story, and though it never changes, somehow we never tire of it. the story is of the constant fight against the one thing we want the most.

and it can never end.

unless, you give up the fight. but you don't want to do that, do you? so the story goes.