In a Lost World (a way of thinking)

It was always simple for my mother—or so it seemed—to be who she was, for me, to be me it never was simple, always a challenge; perhaps she was one of the few people who was content with life as it was, not lost in it. As it is I suppose as animals see it, to live life without notion of it, to love, to breed and to die, we although claim to have reason, or a God given cause, and thus, go see our maker after we die, and this makes us less lost—vivid eloquence, for debate. Anyhow, thus, animals are not in a lost world, because they do not have that reason to know they are lost, nor can be faulted for it, we are in a lost world (most of us), and don’t know it, and have raison d'être. Death makes us vanish, and we look back, tell our story, and still wonder why we were, if really, that is possible. Writers don’t like to vanish, so they write thinking their words will be read a hundred, no perhaps 10,000-years from now, unstinting vanity. They leave behind records, stupid records often, that they lived, they were. Perhaps they think, they will get lost in the hereafter, and thus, leave a record, or pyramid, here and there, or writings on the wall, to let the new ones, the ones to follow us, know we were here. Adam and Eve left a few sons behind, so I am told. My mother left me and my brother. I left a few kids here, and they in return, have left a few. We want to read stories, tell them, and live them, it is what we do down here, since we do not have to fight for survival anymore, like the animals still do; lastly, we create politics, diplomats, a form of endurance, to show our continued existence, from the thrones of the world. Boredom seeks in if indeed, we cannot find something to do, fill that gap up, the lost world gap. When we discover that we are lost, we have gained some insight. But what is being lost? Everybody thinks they are found, or not lost because they are established. Lost to me means: the need to kindle in nature (life) and face, and shed some light on humanity, reveal and bring into clear view the corner and cracks of darkness, the true extender, you might call it; man remains in bondage as long as they scuttle to, and adapt to pretense—only finding on the death bed, all those years were really unsuccessfully lived, lost in a lost world. Lost is the person who serves only himself, self interest, the admiration of our antiquity.