We seek perfection, our souls to be pure. We fear God, of not being good enough. We fear hell, of being in eternal torment. But what really torments us is the weight of these expectations, for an idea made up in our minds.
We are running a race so far lost that before we are born, we are a product of sin.
We are so enchanted by this light; the eternal flame. But the light is artificial. An ideal constructed by humanity. The phosphlorescent bulb that lights our night, and guides our way in the dark.
It ensnares us. We blindly pursue the light, like moths to a flame, we fool ourselves with desire.
We can never touch this light. It is the sun, the moon and the stars.
But even the stars we see in the sky are dead, when we see them shine so bright.
Even the stars die, wishing to be pure bringing us beauty, even so.
Sins are unavoidable; unless you live a life of mere content. Instead we choose a tormented soul and are killed slowly with the tantilising desire of the unattainable.