Once, dear universe, I believed I was merely a vessel of epidermal miracles. Beyond the skin, they said, lay untold riches of the human spirit. Beyond the skin indeed. The explorers, they must have it easy, clad in suntanned bliss and ignorance, unfurling maps like self-taught prophets.
"Air is free," they proclaimed, sipping yet another overpriced existential crisis on a rooftop terrace.
Image this, a soul adrift here, there yet immediate nowhere.
Beyond the skin lies irony. Self, once aggrandized in the golden hues of self-help parlance, now skims the surface like a weary passing thought. Behind the skin’s fragile tapestry, a sitcom of cosmic proportions plays. The protagonists? Oh, mere caricatures of aspiration.
Enter, stage left, a necessary villain: Cosmic Duty. Masquerading on this earthly plane as mundane routine, ever stealthy, ever imposing. Yet, I jest. To veil oneself in such existential plight is a grand joke.
I pondered once—a futile exercise, but amusing nonetheless—if a tattoo might cure the itch of purpose. A phrase perhaps, sage and compelling, turning heads while turning none. Ultimately, an embroidered lie.
Loot parody stickers. Paint the canvas wealthily; however, the canvas fidgets.