I’ve been enthralled by the writing of Simone de Beauvoir’s “All men are mortal” in the past few days. Never have I never been capsulated by a book no more. It has carved a new stroke in the mind, a stroke that flutters in the winds of life. The immortal life that shows a glimpse of the end, and more importantly knowing that it will be pointless being there in that moment. Life is constant cycle of things that happen. But it’s humorous how a book that quiver’s the spark of life, would be the one that create such a yearn that I had never before. I never wished to live in the moments of the unmethodical conscious mind, something that observes everything and forms a reaction. The reason the immortal found the cycle to be pointless, is because never sees an end to it. An obvious hope hidden within the pile of deception, what wonderful antiquities. The perfect argument that makes the point is hoped to achieve and never truly argued for. There is no meaning, no infinity and not even a satisfaction of knowing after death, but there still remains the primordial spirit that has and always maintains life. Our emotions still determine what we do or what we do to not do what they ask with the feeling of consequences. There is no running from then. I know not to love nothing, but I still do. I still live. The answer it all began with has come back to me in full circle. Do what you love.