Our Feeble Existence

It is a miracle that I still live, for I satisfy every desire for submitting my life to death. The intellect alone calls upon me to walk on.

Consciousness is an illness most unbearable.

It is remarkable that I am here, given the conditions in which I have dwelled. So feeble is our existence; so limited is our knowledge that the encounters of tomorrow may not be contemplated upon. All of life is an unexpected encounter.

What a most mystical piece of work is man.

Oft do things make me forget. Nothing makes me happy, except for perhaps…

Being human. Too human.

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Published in: on 09/11/2014 at 8:54 PM  Leave a Comment  

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