Envy we the fleeting children of the dust. We who let life flow through our veins like liquid fire, denying it nothing and gorging it on all the experiences, the feelings and passions, needs, and desires that we can muster until each day burns more brightly than one hundred thousand suns and the darkness of tomorrow shudders with our passing. Envy we who by our own mortality are made immortal with every breath we take and every bold leap forward for it is that defiance unto the last breath, unique and untarnished by the corruption of repetition and the corrosion of time that makes us different, without equal. Our perfection is not the untainted dream, nor the lifeless ideal, instead it breaths, it lives because it is the imperfections. Our skin is slick with blemish flaws and pockmark faults, torn ribbons tattered, frayed, hung loose and threadbare, but it is because of this that we stand tall, our shoulders squared as we look out into that great abyss, that place that we can not clearly see where beginning meets end and all reason falls away.

Envy we children, fleeting and imperfect, because out time is now, is then and then forever more. It is what we make it to be, what we build with our sweat, our tears, fears, prayers and dreams. It is our imperfect perfection, our world that we have wrought with every gasping breath, every passing moment. All our deaths, our lives, our struggles, and our fails. They burn like beacons, bright, unrepentant, everlasting testaments to our lives; lived, proud and full.

Envy us because we only have to open our eyes to know that we are, and that that is enough.


phazil was here.