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Gazing thru the window at the world outside, writing pointlessly in a journal that does not really make a difference to me. Writing perhaps because it helps me remember. I settle with nothing, and reach for everything. Nobody could understand how the gods felt when they created the world… but I have an idea of the joy they must have felt when the first of man took its steps in evolution. Now we play with power meant only for the gods… Why split the atom? Is not our current way of life good enough? Was not the way before working fine? Healing turned to killing, communication to lying… Man has come so far, but fell so far behind what may have become of us… Perfection may be so far off, but we kill in the name of it. Is that the way to do it?Softly, I caress these peculiar ideas running thru my head. How wrong is it to think that you may have figured out where exactly in history we went wrong. Is it even for me to fathom? A misshapen finger points at rectangular pieces of paper in pretty colour.

I write more, talk less, eat less. I end up living less as I fall further into depression over the world outside my window. The world causes fear in the pit of my stomach, people die every day, but should they? Should man kill man for man? Man also kills man for those pretty pieces of paper. I hide inside my apartment for fear of stepping out my door lest the gods smite me for opposing their creations way of living.

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