Humanity - the sole endeavor of sanctity in every man, the moribund symphony serenading in all perceptions, the extinct deference suggestive of life—humanity. Something already sold to that trait of the individual defined as war.

War is never introduced but is in the presence of man as in birth, it is left to man to either seek its vice or pertain himself to the fountainhead of life – humanity. Self is the greatest, yet the most malicious proposition of existence introduced to man. We are men - of flesh, blood and avarice. The flesh is of self, the blood is for self and the voracious avarice is self. And just to promote this very self – the audacious euthanasia steps forth onto the threshold of existence.

We are mortals, mortals to whom the commandments of life are to tread only on those roads that commence and conclude in us. We encroach the realms of life and intervene the capricious horizons with prospects that are concerned only for the likes of the me and the I. In us lies the yearning that teaches the ever-dubious laws of life - To live for self, to cheat for self, to slaughter for self and self-alone. Fidelity to ourselves, deference for our existence and a narcissist approach to life is the only erudition, we actually do attain. We lead ourselves by the hand in a world of darkness following a path paved not for any man to trudge upon and claiming all that which wasn’t destined to us because in a world where men seek the visions of greatness they stand blinded to the paths taken to immortality.

We want to rule this human because for us this human is senile, meager and impotent. We want to slay the living because we believe that the human is a race that runs the world but in itself is even dubious of its own existence. Our adamant urge to never be one of the many, our defiance of all truths of veracity and our ideals to annihilate the existent verity made us what we are today – men.

But what about the man? Not men. But the man. The destitute man with his insipid life, monotonous definitions of every concept ideal to living and the man to whom dawn is as impertinent as dusk. What about him? He will writhe, suffer and die. For where only the profound, the sublime, the infallible, the potent – the men survive the magnitude of the man is and shall ever be just demise.

We lie ensnared in this division of the humanitarian and the capitalist side of the human soul, where one end is engrossed in the emancipation of existence, the other prepares the elixir to cure the plague that runs the world — human. They say the end is approaching, cloaked, disguised, incognito, yet encroaching, this might sound incredibly sickening but I believe that this is not the end, only the beginning of a beginning.

About The Author

I'm a desperate author sincerely trying hard to get puiblished and i really hope that if i'm found worthy of it, i will be provided an oppurtunity.

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