Humans in life

They crawl like small sleazy fat maggots. Crawling all around this body, loving it, adoring it, the source of their own treasured life is the death of others.

Inherent desire in seeing life fall down.

Falling and falling from its own grace its own breath. Who knew life was about devouring the dead?

Dead flesh, dead eyes, dead bones.

There they are, a smile in the imprint of their matter, a smile full of eagerness, excitement and angst.

Who knew, who thinks about life, this life that is built on the corpses of what has passed? The present moment pushed forward by dead yesterdays.

Why do we paint it with feeling of wrong, bad, gross

In the forest, life eats death completely, then dies only to be devoured again by life itself, we call this part of our reality, Ouroboros. We see it every day, we breathe it, like our lungs crush the air around it to take it to all of our cells.

There is something poetic about it. About this virus called life.

There is something poetic about the human kind also. These small sleazy fat maggots, they escape this reality, into the dimension of ideas, where time, life, death is just another element, where memories and fantasies about the future compose a personal symphony, the rhythm in which it devours the death surrounding it.

Or probably, I’m just cynical.

Don’t get me wrong a maggot can be a philosopher and enjoy its lunch.A maggot can create love poems for the corpse that it devours… Now I’m just being nasty.

I see life in a constant act of cleansing and consuming the death others left behind. But, that is what a body does, and we all are this parasite of this body that we named mother earth. I wonder how the parasites of my own belly call me.

Or probably, I’m just cynical.

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