It all misaligns from the way it was designed. Life shuffles, mixed up, motion directionless. Action leans toward consequence, slow and deathless. Somewhere in the dark, something reacts first, aware before anything else admits what it had heard.

It exists within a fragile bubble of creation, capable of more than it allows itself to become. This pocket is not restrained by reality, but by laziness. By lust. If this small it could rupture the bubble and abandon the tendencies that bind it so tightly to being human, it might finally progress.

It reflects on how, eventually, we’ll all just become part of the internet’s archive, nothing truly significant left behind, unless…

I love and hate that this account has no interactions, it feels lost.

One day, envelope life to a world made their own.

We drank poison from the same vine.

I may not see my goals clearly, I may wander with a blindfold over my eyes, I may even be a fool, but that doesn’t mean I believe in failure.

What else is there for one to learn of life, if not through living and wandering through it?

I’m caught between wanting to mature and wishing I could stay childish forever. If I’m so embarrassed by my immaturity, why do I keep acting that way?

In theory, life is a sandbox with limitations. You can move, build, destroy, and create however you want, but only within the boundaries set by reality. You’re free to be your own person, yet something always seems to hold you back.