We answer it with “not to be,” losing our lives in screens, pixilated dreams set on never-ending cycles of “being is not enough,” but outside our darkened windows, purple flowers pulse in rocky pockets of hillsides, insisting on being in spite of our blindness, not needing to be seen in order generate pseudo-self-esteem, esteeming what is to be more than enough.

As if your one sacred life could ever be outdone by the photoshopped, calculated sheen of a perfume ad.  As if there was ever a meme that captured even a fraction of the awe you feel when you look at the face of the moon reflected to you, shattered and splintered, in a moaning mirror of sea.  As if the echoes of ancient stars, finally reaching our eyes after eons of travel through the watery, warped web of space-time, could ever be eclipsed by the fleeting, bleached smile of an already decaying celebrity.

Truth crashes all around you, in the molecules of air springing toward sun as you exhale, in the pebble that clattered down stone steps when you kicked it, in the water that lapped over your skin while you bathed.

You closed your eyes, went under, opened your perfect mouth, drank it down, let it boil in your sacred, starving belly.

You are hungry.  Step away from the dead dream screen.  Life waits for you. Swallow it whole.

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