Famelust.

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Humanity. We exist, or co exist, as some will define. We bundle, gather in masses. We congregate to a central theme or presiding idea in the hopes that glimpsing notoriety will propel us into some altered and elevated state of conscious; but we fail. Daily, we combine our efforts, exhaust our resources, bleed until transfusion is beyond approach, to slate our name in history. We fail. We fall. We expend every ounce of credence that we already possess in order to extend some unnatural characteristic; completely unorthodox in nature and nearly unachievable in execution. This is our story, our legacy. Without this incessant, albeit unruly, desire to become more than we are, no matter the souls we trample along the way, we would have no identification; and this is our defining characteristic. No other species in known history has exuded such a putrid, deafening lust. Famelust. The true tragedy is that the few who are content with being what they are and existing within their own measures, are mocked and ridiculed, never remembered. It takes true grit, true determination, to look at one’s self and feel no unholy need for propulsion. That is how I wish to be remembered: as a man comfortable with himself. Not on any account of arrogance; self awareness. I will be inexplicably enraged if I allow my trueness of heart to be tampered by the ill-suited desires of all those around me. I will stand firm my beliefs and, when society feels threatened by my attitude, my ability to deny their lust any credence whatsoever, they will condemn me to affliction, death. So, when flames rise around me, suffocating me of my final plea to save this world hell bent on self-defecation, I will be known as a man who loved himself, who was content; and I will die happy.





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