What if the point is that there is no point?
What if all the good things we do are simply stories told over a fire slowly dying out by people desperate not to face the cold that is coming?
A distraction best known for helping pass the time that is really just as good as any other thing we do. It doesn't really matter what they are.
The heroes still grow fragile and old and disintegrate just like the villains and all the bones turn to dust that some future person, hoping to find fame and fortune, digs up and writes stories about. Our fame is a nameless tibia lying in a glass box in a museum who doesn't know if our heart was broken or we saved the world.
I guess that makes us all museum quality and supposedly that is the best.
No comments:
Post a Comment