We posture like peacocks and prance like lions. We giggle at the primal and seemingly outlandish mating rituals of animals and then we engage in a far more tangled and subdued dance that yields confusion more than results. We plant well timed seeds, we harvest according to our own clocks, we seek only tender saplings in a ground we refuse to tend and water. We’re little more than the creatures we descended from, we just learned how to cloak our tendencies in a shroud. Wrapped in layers and layers of gauzy obfuscation, we hope desperately that you might not know what we’re doing while you’re following our steps like a masochistic waltz. It’s a funny little number and we end up stepping on each other’s toes and rushing the piece.

Perhaps we love the cloak and dagger, crave the smoke and mirrors. Maybe it’s engrained in our soul after so many generations of backwards evolution that we expect uncertainty. That love requires bloodshed like some tax for our contentment. With our wires so crossed, maybe we wouldn’t know what to do with something that wasn’t hardwired to surge. But I often find it funny that we fancy ourselves civilized and devolve every chance we get to offer up hearts like fair sacrifice.