Review Summary: Just listen to Prophets. If you aren't captivated, go buy a new heart. The one you now possess is malfunctioning.
Life is beautiful. Sometimes if you wake up early enough you can see the sun’s face slowly peek over the horizon. Not when it’s warm or anything, but when it adds that sort of color to the world. A brilliant gold. And when those friendly tendrils stretch through that blanket of fog, illuminating, exposing little particles of nature you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. That’s the feeling. Dew, spherical, chilly, biting your feet. Long grass reaching up to shake your hand. Too good to be true, although, you know it is. Flinching as you pinch yourself, you’re still there. The horrid part about life is that it eventually withers and dies. For sure you’d be the happiest person on earth if you could live in this moment among the wildlife. Life doesn’t work like that though. One day you will be nothing but fertilizer for everything you see before you, you fear it, it haunts you.
Like you’re stranded on an iceberg, floating, simply existing. Going nowhere. Blue-green water slops up at you, but you ignore it. The sky is black except for a sliver of the moon that sits on the water in front of you, taunting you. As far as you know there is nothing else, nobody to help you, nothing to comfort you. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you don’t love, you don’t feel. You just know. The darkness begs that you plunge into the water, breaking its mirror-like surface. Despite much struggle, the iceberg doesn’t let you go. It hasn’t ever let anything go. It hates that you’ve been somewhere other than this place, the Otherworld. It hates earth, all the joy, sorrow, pain, caring, and love that have been produced there. These feelings are not mutual.
Just like last night you awake with a fright. The bed has all the signs of a fragmented yet deep sleep. Drool on the snow-white pillowcase, blankets thrown in a heap at the foot of the bed, and the sheets have come undone and have skillfully wrapped themselves around an arm. It might be yours but it’s almost as alien as the iceberg. Dried salt is still crusted to your face, crying should probably be removed from your nightly ritual. If only forgetfulness were an option. Another day begins, another dollar to be made. Skipping work sounds like a good idea, but in the end slavery to orthodoxy prevails. Next week is vacation though, which means only one thing. Time to stop, watch the sunrise, and take time to think: Life is beautiful.