Tuesday, 22 July 2014

A book can take a year to write, yet be read in mere days.
An artistic masterpiece can take similarly long, yet be consumed in seconds, absorbed in minutes, interpreted in hours.
Human beings are conceived in seconds, fermented in months, raised for years, yet live for decades. Most are capable of reproduction, and engage in the act often and eagerly. Creators, though, are few and far between, and their artistic children rare and frequently short-lived.
What does this say of the value of human life? Is progeny something to be proud of, or merely a means of sustaining our race? Is it the children of our bodies, or the children of our minds that deserve the fullest attribution of praise, and the prime focus for building a legacy?

What matters most? The life of an idea, or the idea of a life?


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