Does it get better or worse?

More of the same, but with a lesser body. So worse. But then, the understanding. What was once considered important is now irrelevant. A beauty is seen in the experiences. In being. And that, surely, is much better. Worse for all the things I have missed. The past speckled with beauty, unappreciated, out of reach. Yet, better for caring less. For trusting myself, carefully. For courage? But wretched the mind, who wants the best of both.



There are many archetypes. The one of the Other that completes the I. The one of the family in the house with the garden. The one of living in harmony with Nature. The one that says: I’ll do it myself. The one that just wants freedom. The one that measures itself through what it knows. The one that measures itself through how it looks. The one that wants to be the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. The one that wants to be with The Most Beautiful Woman in the World. The one about bad luck. The one about Success. The one about winning, always winning. The one obsessed about being right [as not to drown].

All is useless

on human design

The most genius part of the design will be its limited frame of reference. We put the eyes on the front, the head can turn, but the scope is limited both in rotation and distance. It will not remember what happened too far before its own existence, nor realise what inevitable future it is headed for. It will not realise, therefore, its discoveries have all been thought before.