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I was good at hell.
I was no longer like the people who crammed biscuits and lurched out of the food caverns temporarily insane with excitement. They were ineffective hunters. They never knew when the next meal might come because they lacked determination. When they could, they ate themselves fat, ate themselves sick, and then starved themselves flabby. Most of their biscuits were stolen from them anyway.
The rules of the divine game resulted in a certain isolation of the soul.
Is it enough to struggle in an endless cycle for the simple biological truths of food, water, sex, and sleep? I tried. I tried to be content. I tried not to feel nauseous about the failures of other people, to draw my satisfaction from the strength of my own muscles and bones. Success is selfish.
We were so driven by hunger and thirst, and so isolated from each other by the constant mixing of the crowd, and so numbed by the repetition of caverns and food troughs and rusty water pipes and perpetual battle, and so gratified at each orgiastic meal, that we had lost all our capacity for imagination. For vision.
When your life is a basic ritual of survival, there is no room for true living. You know, doing the things humans were MEANT to do.
I never seemed to reach a goal. Maybe the exploration itself was a purpose. I couldn’t think of any other.
