Life is hard. It’s a private battle. Scars remain on the inside.
No-one cares. No-one cares about anyone, and everyone is uncared for.
Reality is dull. Day-to-day life is dull.
People are good and bad and in-between. Most are in-between. That’s worse, somehow.
Physical pain is the greatest pain. Torture is worse than mental-flagellation. Sticks and stones do hurt more than words. Our bodies fail us, and we rage, and whimper.
The strong hurt the weak because they can. Compassion is a limited resource.
No-one can truly understand us but ourselves. We live on tiny, separate planets in the universe of consciousness.
You are who you are. You must live with who you are, until the end. You do the best with who you are.
It does not matter if you die. It does not matter if anyone in the world dies, right now. The living are good at living on.
There is laughter, but mostly sorrow.
There is love, but mostly loneliness.
Nothing is as good as we wish it to be, but surprises still delight our hearts.
We don’t know much. We are kind of scared because of that.
But we cling to the threads of joy that we can.
So that our death shroud can glimmer slightly in the dark tomb of eternity. Because we are vain like that.