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We talk about the future as if it isn't an extention of a tormented past. We speak about history, like it would never repeat itself. We run from the truth, ignoring that we can never escape ourselves. There is just so much to want in this life, not like any of it would make any difference. Speaking of this "difference", is there really such a thing? Maybe life is just a cycle of self-perpetuated constants, as scary as that might seem. We babble about change being a constant. We study how entropy would only drive the universe to expand, changing its course. But the chaos of death, loss, and misery has always been the same, with different a different face for each generation. There is this consistency for suffering that is almost poetic, driving crazy men to speak of a Utopia that can never exist. Because if there was a Creator, the Creator carved us to love ourselves first. And if there wasn't, then natural selection built us to fight to be, by all means, the fi