Behold the man, lauded, and applauded--appreciated and loved, still he does not feel it. Why? He has since died long ago--his bones rotten, his senses non-existent. "Amazing work," "such a great mind," "my what a great soul," and the unforgettable "a gem to mankind." All laughable. Loneliness. A persisting one to the grave. This is the curse some carry, writers, poets, singers, and thinkers. When alive are despised, ignored, trampled upon...yet when death has overtaken them, the scales fall from their eyes...they now see clearly.
Perhaps a cause of willful isolation. Unconsciously brought upon.
Many men harm...thinking they do good. Some do good, thinking they do harm.
Some harm because it is all they know. Some harm because it has been done to them.
All in all, all men do...from what do they act...not a clue.
Thinker, writer--all a means of experiencing. Some see far away and are applauded; some perceive something and are discarded; still, all feel alone...in a bubble.
"Perhaps it's finally time for me to make this one effort: to take a good look at my life. I see myself in the midst of a vast desert. I tell what I literarily was yesterday, and I try to explain to myself how I got there." --Fernando Pessoa
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