The flame burns quietly waiting for it's chance to roar. We each have a little rage spirit in us for just the right times. The movement of lights, and the vibrations of sounds soothe our fleshy core. But our spirits develop anxiousness in the desire for more. The departure from the artificial, and the return of what all of our organic ancestors remember. A beautiful life lived in the arms of nature, the bosom of trees, listening to the babbling of the water, as it told us many tales. Now we tell ourselves many lies. We reject the Sun but see how to recreate it. We're untethered, always seeking the fire, but in complete darkness. We even mold ourselves in our contorted image. We created God all powerful and in the same created reason for us to become all-knowing monsters throughout the ages. Now we simply throw bed sheets on our past to cover it. We can't be expected to stand it. Such horror, such ugliness. We rather be aesthetic perfection. Yet, what will become of us when we're more artificial than natural? More machine constructed, than spirit?
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