One Hundred and Sixty Nine

There’s no one and nothing left to live for.  We could go on living, and hoping we'll do better; but time and time again we’ve chosen to do worse.  And now our time is running out.  Even if we did miraculously change now, and did do better, it’s too late.

Is this true of us, or of me only?  I can’t separate myself from them. 

The last mystery of identity: they and I differ in that they imagine they and I are different, while I know we’re more alike than we are different. 

They imagine they can separate themselves from others, and save themselves by leaving the others behind.  I know I can’t because I never wanted to.  Until now.  And now that I wish I could, it’s too late to deceive myself, as they do. 

O wad some Power the giftie gie us, to deceive oursels as ithers deceive us!