Rotting with the weeds

Humans were supposed to be immortals,

I think our blood were eternal

A drop of it dating back to the oldest tree root,

and to the oldest river flown.

The humans although danced with imminent catastrophe.

and this was bound to happen. We are no more an immortals.

Failing to realize we are the tiniest creatures on a rock revolving a gas giant.

We were supposed to be immortals. Blessings were never there for the corrupts.

We became corrupts. Greed, lust and unfortunately, the very human core,

was flawed.

That’s what makes us human, right?

Flaws. No matter how grave these flaws are, to err is to human.

What makes us more human is love, compassion and empathy. It is not easy for us to feel for a person.

Perhaps the most difficult task in this world is to sap someones sadness and experience it, as if its your own grief, your own wound.

But these qualities do exist, along with flaws, like flowers in the field of weeds.

But what has a child born on the street has to do with this? Is she the one who is corrupt, taking the burden of this curse?

Why then is she on the street, scraping dustbins for food?

Why do we exist in a society that drains us of these flowers, makes us rot in the weed instead.

Why are we taught to survive in a hunger game? Why are we deprived of those flowers.

I tried asking these questions to myself. Why can’t I ever feel someone else’s feeling. To be happy for someone, to be sad for someone.

Why are we rotting with the weeds.

Perhaps we are prime example of bad humans.

Because apparently we like rotting in the weeds.