ChiCargo

We are a tangled mess of flesh, embodying primitive urges of unnatural standards that were abandoned with the salt pillar of one particularly uncivilized civilization. I chuckle lightly as you kiss me, knowing deep down that we have just crossed a line we can never step back over. We are not the Indian givers of impulse. We are stuck here.

A "wise" man has told me time and again that there is a substantial difference between living and existing. As many times as he has uttered these words and as many times as I've recited them in such a cerebral fashion that I momentarily find myself fearing confrontation from Szilard and Wigner, he has never been so inclined to define either existence or life and I have never taken the action required to fulfill his prophecy of waning hope. As I lose you to a lustful Cerberus, I ask myself if I think this is what he meant when he cracked open the crumbling exterior of his skull and allowed me to witness the accumulation of so many years feather down in the form of this thin and flimsy rectangular ideology. Now that I've had time to reflect on the subject at hand, I find myself leaning toward neither proposed option and instead have come to the conclusion that if this is what either life or existence consists of, I'd much rather prefer the company of the walls stained with the substance of those that succumbed before me.

I miss you already.