The Beauty in the Debris

This life rolls on and on, in search of new meaning which ever evolves without staying in one place to be framed and kept static in a cabinet. That is what human beings keep trying to do all the time—pocket something or someone and make it their own, keep it for some future purpose or use or reference, not bothering about whether that person likes it or not.

And so on. The endless locomotive chugs on and on on the railroad tracks that forever reek of the echo of stinky human excreta existence, dried up and sticking to the piles of nails and stones that clamour and clatter around the track, soiled by time and weather. The planets hurtle through the sky and the trains hurtle through the tracks while life hurtles by. We hurtle on in our endless journeys only to be pulled up suddenly at an unknown, unthought-of location, to be reincarnate again in the core belief that we have gone too far in inquisitiveness.