A Response to Nature

Are we a nation of poets? humans with an eye for detail and the words to describe, compare and contrast a life so desperate to show us something. We see it everyday, but it sometimes passes us by as we become stuck in the mundane routines that never subside. Like the birds flying south, this one directional mayhem seems to be the only thing to persist. Can we fight it? Can we leave it? Or can we only appreciate it? I don’t want this to be a preaching piece of writing, when what do I really know? Am I so much better? I feel this when I write, like I’m trying to be profound.

The birds of prey gather awaiting their attack on the unsuspecting victim, but they rarely work together. Kill or be killed. To see the monotony everyday, in every walk of life, of the confabulated truths which rule the dichotomous relations with have with ourselves and each other. Can we ever be really true? True to ourselves and another? Blame the pressure. The pressures of life dictate our relations. Can’t distinguish one day from the next as we lose ourselves to life’s final regrets. Justifying the endless mundane with materialism.