It’s my birthday in December. But no one really cares for that. It has become a holiday, a festival that’s merchandised and sold, presents are for the taking and no one remembers me. I guess that’s how humanity works, remember for a while, forget forever.
Some of them don’t believe. They have no faith. Not that I blame them. The world’s gone to shit and nothing is going to change that. For such a beautiful creation, they are most surely doomed. Perhaps that’s the point, nothing good, pure or beautiful is meant to last. That’s why it’s good and pure and beautiful, because it stays for its time and once gone, is remembered for what it was.
I hope humanity are remembered for what they are. An imperfectly wonderful race, full of contradictions and opinions, of laughter and joy, of sadness and anger, they are the hope in the darkness, the light in the shadows, they are the birdsong in the breeze, the fruits in the summer and the snow in the winter. They are warm and cold, bitter and icy, they kill and destroy, they are greedy and selfish.
But they are also kind and intelligent, they are creative and thoughtful. They see what we cannot and feel what we will never touch. They are a mess of paints, splattered on a patchy canvas, where nothing makes sense and yet it does at the same time.
I love them. Even if they have forgotten what this day means, I love them because they are inspiring and wild, because they are what I’ll never be.