It’s a scraggly branch on which you balance the precepts of your existence. Scraggly as the razor thin wedge of time that holds your mind free of the void.
From up here where I hang by my tail, I pity your species; you allowed evolution to claim your tail, leaving you to walk that branch, trying not to look up or down or side to side for fear of the despairing truth that yawns there, ready to swallow your hopes and dreams.
You can only look back at the tree, your memories sweetened by sentiment, or forward to the light, seduced by the wishful promise of forever.
And to distract your feeble intellect you procreate, kill and destroy with dry abandon, waste your seed and the sweat of ancestral labour, uncaring of the possibility of separation from the tree - the very tree that you are meant to nurture for your children; the future of your species. Yet you molest and pamper them by turns, good cop bad cop, fill them with fear and ignorance and emptiness.
And by standing between them and the tree you leave them only the prospect of a narrowing scraggly branch.
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