It's Time for Fight

I shared my arrangement of a bowl, a plate, a moist tea-bag, four beer bottles, three bottle-caps, and something else I can't remember with those of my friends who are generic. They deemed it a fine retirement fund.

We are all secretly afflicted with a fatal disease. It's a unique secret in that everyone knows it, but it's still a secret. Hiding in plain sight, it explains - with startlingly mechanical simplicity - every finest detail of our culture, encompasses the whole of our soul-searching, and can be tangibly identified. It is a premise upon which virtually all wisdom is based, and the reason for which wisdom is sought.

I used to think it was strange when I encountered comments that were openly obsessed with it. I don't any more. I've become obsessed with it, and I've come to understand this obsession as being more common than I previously thought. It goes beyond metal music and the morbid thoughts of twisted, depraved thinkers. Christian self-help writers are talking about it. Paul McCartney is talking about it. The elderly wrestle with it titanically, and show their age by keeping calm for our sake - the sake of those blissful many who don't really know what they know, who think that they will live forever.

So why is it a secret? That's the answer that can't be shared; I think I know it, and I think I could write my answer, but it would lose its truth. This answer can only exist internally; nothing external reaches that loneliest point to which it pertains. Besides, I'm not sure.