It Doesn’t Care

I Write Her

Hal had me pondering a bit more about this recent piece

Taken

It still astounds me
how fast and unforgiving
fate’s hands can be.

How can a life be so
quickly and relentlessly taken…

Without any fucking remorse?

As life comes at us, it certainly does feel like it has no remorse. At times, it feels relentless in providing us one lash of the whip after the other, doesn’t it? Bit of a sadist, I’d also say. After reflection, my answer to the question posed in the piece is simply this…

Nature is an immortal and indiscriminate serial killer.

What do you think? And what does it take to keep on going?

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