As one who is young, we often think of ourselves as infallible beings, built of rock and stone, with a heart encased in pure gold.
Perhaps it's because as humans, we are programmed to be dualists; To believe that the spirit and body are entities capable of divine centrifugation; That there exists a life transcending material.
Our notion of imperishability probably stems from that belief of an immortality that outlives our time as mortals, lending us the naive courage to live at the spite of death.
Of course, taking out biology at face point, we are all but expiring creatures infesting a planet in the vast galaxy. And to magnify what is already minuscule, each of us are living on borrowed time, in vessels as fragile as an intricate ivory lattice, sheathed in soft flesh, permeated by warm blood.
All wounds bleed; All pain hurt.
All misgivings pierced into a beating heart will eventually halt its rhythmical struggle.
We will die. Our bodies will rot; Cadavers bearing the memories of a life once existed.
We will cease to remain,
When our gold-encased heart suffocates under the weight of its own armor.
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