As I sit down to write a story,

I often start by remembering what it means to be human.

I will breathe like I am being born for the first time.

I will look down at my hands and legs,

I will feel the air around me.

As I sit down to write a story,

I recount the human experience.

I think about pointless war and the suffering that follows.

I imagine what it means to have nothing,

and lean back and think, for hours. 

After I have remembered all of this,

I let the words type themselves as though it was

not me typing, but rather a more thoughtful version of me.

The mind is a war-torn land in which nothing thrives.

Each is left to their own devices,

trying hard to change a reality that will never budge.

Some pray for an end to the madness,

but the death knell never stops ringing,

at least not until we are all gone.