The Snake

Self destruction, the true name of whimsy. It revolts, like a coiled snake, to being cornered by acts of organization. Our plans, our habits, it hates it. We continue to fight it, eyes always on it so that we may avoid its strike. Yet it only takes a moment of distraction for it to bite. Then we must lay and fight its poison; and as we do it lies out in the sun. We are forced to rest with it, held in agonizing lethargy under the blistering sunlight. We must exhume its poison ourselves or pray for an antidote. Even once we rise, we cannot bring ourselves to kill the snake. We can never kill the snake. If we fight with it, we will fail. If we submit to it, we will die. We must dance with the snake, eyes on it at all times. We must soothe it, and sidestep its strikes. This is what we must do to survive.