Pinocchio and The Ghost

The waves carry us endlessly, each day we crash to the shore, each morning we wake from sleep to find ourselves a drift on the vast ocean. We are always brought home.

The traps are intricate. My hat goes off to all human beings, even the worst of us, living in this way is not an easy thing. There is an element of randomness to it. This puzzle of mixed up pieces is somehow made right by sheer will. A to B to C to D.  A choose your adventure book, and we all choose out of necessity. The energy is, staggering. To carry out such a thing, 6 billion voices split into exponentially more. All crying out for a moment of peace, endlessly fighting for control of a ghost. At least Pinocchio was made of wood, our substance is on shakier ground.

Something cannot come from nothing. No one has ever encountered nothing. The fantasy of nothing is something. The fantasy of a fantasy of nothing cannot escape the irresponsible word. And on and on. It would be simpler if we just admitted that we are scared to die. Not all of us, but at least some of us, and probably most of us. Maybe then we could get about living life looking at each other with penetrating eyes. Together in our uncertainty sounds a whole lot better than apart in our fantasy.