Bones to Pick

I have a graveyard of bones to pick with life because it’s starting to feel as if it’s giving it all to death. Life feels as if it were surrendering too easily to the death of love, death of joy, death of feeling, and death of hope. So I ask pleadingly, “Life, why are you cultivating so much death?” What if we just cultivated the soil a little more to bring forth healthier trees with full fruits for the little beings that could scamper about and grow the forest bigger? What if the path were clearer, a bit more manageable, for frail souls and bodies? What if in the place of battlefields we erected symbols immortalizing all of Life’s warmest qualities? Now I know that in life there must be room for death, but must it be this large?

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