Put something heavy in a light format,

a spoonful of something sweet to jazz up the bitter pill. Soften the tragedy of self-consciousness by giving it an ego to coddle and hug. The face in the mirror keeps looking back increasingly suspiciously. Religion may have the answers to a thousand questions that keep popping up so regularly that it must be more than coincidental, but I doubt it. Religion can only deal with certainties, and those are very few. Put something hard in a soft place and gift-wrap it for future generations to come, the seeds of memory, the fruit of immortality. These are the things that humans do, species specific, above and beyond the duties of genus, aspiring to the heights of genius, destined to settle for something less, a graveyard for egos. You study and slave, you scrimp and save, you sweat and sacrifice, postponing personal pleasures, giving your godly gifts, just to end up alone and afraid in a corner in a room in a building in a neighborhood in a city in a state of despair, in a country on a continent of a world in a universe that really doesn’t care. You take your love when and where you find it. You give your love to anyone who’ll have it.