On the fun of dying…

I’m dying, you too;

we’re all dying

(that’s what makes us

biologic, real, living);

and that’s what makes

me ordinary – nothing

special at all (and, you

too, by the way).

 

It’s the snowflake

thing; the ‘every single

one is unique’ (which is

not true – repeating

patterns and possibilities

– just not enough time

or data to prove the one

and/or the many).

Since we’re all

unique, and uniqueness

is what each and every one

has in common, then

no one of us – you, me,

him, her, us, them – is (are?)

unique (adjective; one

of its, her, his kind).

 

Moral ethicists wish

to motivate the

bourgeois, hoi polio

to aspire, to rise above

the status quo, keeping-up

all dying but not all living

claptrap that sells

books and seminars.

 

No matter how

many times we’re told,

how much consolation

we gain from being consoled

by such dreams, we all

are the same in that;

all together, altogether,

all are all alike.

 

All die because

all live, all are alive because

all die; we all all

face the same doubt

of dignity, of compassion;

because, not in spite of,

our biology.

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