Memoirs

It is man's ability to remember that sets us apart. 

We are the only species concerned with past; concerned with the fragments of our history that stab and draw blood from every mistake we’ve made, glisten with the sweat that it needs to produce the few worthy memories that we frame in our minds, and hope that one day the good will overcome the bad, or burn the photographs of people we hope to forget, but never can. 

Our memories give us voice and bear witness to our history, the only record of what’s truly happened to us lies within our minds. 

Memories enable others to celebrate our triumphs, learn from our mistakes, be warned from our failures.

The ways that define our fragile existence are endless; there are many ways to give it meaning, but it is our memories that shape its purpose and give it context.

Our private assortment of fears, loves, regrets...

...and it’s the cruel irony of life that we are destined to hold the dark with the light, the good with the evil, success with disappointment. This is what separates us, what makes us human.

And in the end, we must fight to hold on to them, because without them, we are nothing.

Means to an End

Perfection.  In the race to achieve this unattainable state we lose who we are, we become cruel, heartless.  

And what is perfection? Is it not just an image of so called “beauty” forced upon us by society? 

You must look this way, wear these clothes, talk like this. Perfection, or an idea of it, is forced upon us, and we conform. 

Flaws and imperfections make us human, and yet we still strive to be perfect, we strive to lose a part of our soul just to gain the approval of others. 

The true perfection of man lies not in what man has, but in what man is. 

But what’s on the inside doesn't matter anymore.

 Why would it, when all man strives to do is perfect the outside? And money?

A means to perfection. A means to an end.