Bougainvilleas

We humans, are like bougainvilleas

A species divided by colours

A species crying out loud the irrelevant differences, irreverent of the existential truth that it's all really the same

Each colour screaming out it's vanity and deluded perceptions of self-assigned importance

Each colour waging a cold war for supremacy, because the world is for singulars; more than one and it's comparative, more than two, and it's superlative

You look close enough, and you know it's all the same, just different shades of a primary colour really

You look from afar, and it's nothing but a bunch of coloured dots, the dots so miniscule you could barely tell the colours

We humans, are like bougainvilleas

No purpose, no meaning, no poetry, no art

No real necessity in the measured existences

Some made up stories we tell ourselves

From generations gone, to, generations to come

Just so we don't feel as trivial as our lives truly are, because existential isn't comfortable, and if death is inevitable, why not make living comfortable

We humans, are like bougainvilleas; a species that exists only and only because extinction hasn't caught up on us yet