The plight of man is to never be content. This is the result of the Red Queen in all her majestic glory, ever pulling us, ever making us move. Forward we strive, forward we surge, forward we struggle, bite, scratch and claw… for less ground than we actually cover.

This arms race is a real one, wrapped in concepts, metaphors and ephemeral eminence. This arms race will be the end of us all. For there’s no enemy except ourselves, no competition except what we conjure. But both are everything we know.

Everyone jumping for attention with arms raised and mouths open- a sea of needs, an ocean of mislaid motivation.

Forward we breathe, scream and (make) believe. More we plead, weep and think we need.

But great is the shadow of irony, forever enshrouding us in a cloak of darkness. Blinding us with a veil of unnecessary sorrow.

The more you shout, the less you hear.
The more you need, the less you have.
The more you cry, the sadder you are.
The faster you run, the slower you become.

Just stop. Be neutral on a moving train. Cogitate what you want and why. Then accept your blissful genetic demise – for you’ve just been overtaken by someone that didn’t.

This,… the plight of man.