Bread

What if bread is the meaning of life?

No, seriously. Bread.

I mean, imagine the universe really was created by an omnipotent artist, an aesthetic God, who said to himself "This universe will beget a race, a race will which invent and enjoy bread for all eternity."

I mean sure, it seems pretty far-fetched, but heck, why not? Everyone admits God, if he exists, must be pretty damn mysterious. And sure, bread seems like a pretty mundane meaning compared to love and faith and hope and sex and so forth, but being simple doesn't stop something from being important. Think about it: Bread.

To some person, maybe, bread is life. Maybe he spends all his days testing new recipes, tasting and enjoying various kinds of bread, and baking wonderful loaves and cakes and dishes and... bread-y things. To this person, bread could really be the meaning of life, as plain as day. Bread. Seriously. If something as simple as bread could be the meaing of life, why couldn't, say, socks? Clowns, boomerangs, bus engines, that cute guy on the subway, your neighbours, or even you yourself. The possibilities are endless.

The meaning of it all could be hiding in plain sight, all around you. Think about it.

Bread.

Life is its own reward.

There are many who forget it. Life is its own reward.

Don't look for purpose. You're wasting your time. Life isn't in spirit. I don't believe in spirit.

Life is in flesh. Life is meat. Life is concrete and strong and tastes good. Life is the ultimate reward. Of all your fathers' seeds you were the strongest, the fastest, the most worthy of life. Among all who have died, you survived. Life is real.

Nothing is worth more than life itself. Never forget this. Never.

It's been a long, long time...

It never seems to end. I don't know if I want it to end, or how it would end, or if there is such a thing as a happy ending.

I'm tired. I'm so tired, and so consumed by all these feelings that aren't really feelings, they tell me, but they seem so real I can't help but believe it. It's like my very blood was about to be torn through my skin. She's so indecisive. I can't really help her; I only want to get away, only want to stay with her, but she's consumed by ambition.

I love her.

I love him, too. My father, my flesh and my blood and my family. And yet... I keep confusing responsibility and love, and I want to flee from both, because love is a cruel master, much worse than responsibility. All I want is to forget.

And she keeps reminding me.