Seashell

My dear, life is like a beach, full of shells. Most of them look exactly the same, although inside some may keep a treasure. Then some others are absolutely hollow and shallow, whatever, even these shells have their respectable place in the beach. Then there are the unique, exotic-looking shells, unlike any others; these can keep treasures or not, just like any other shell. And what to do with this minority? To leave the exotic shells quiet in their place, discreetly hidden amongst the others is the best we can do. But I don't know how to do that. When I see an exotic shell - that is, more exotic than myself ... - my only desire is to take possession of it. Grab it, dissect it, undo it as if I could possibly take all of that beauty for myself. Beauty, radiance, light, serenity. Owning, grabbing and consuming, these are my prevailing instincts. I am cruel and worthless. And viciously jealows. There was a huge weight on each lobe of each of my ears these past few weeks. The weights were dragging my consciousness through the mud. I deserve this. You don't.