What if, for a moment, we were to consider that everything in this world is a mere construction of something?
What if we, as human beings, are but mere building blocks of matter; what if all comes together to form something that splits apart into the abysmal void of nothingness? The buildings we gaze at, the very ideas and thoughts hidden within the recesses of our mind, and even the very structure of our being, are all made of something smaller that works in tandem with other small things to create an entire entity — a machine, if you will — that is organic in nature; crafted entirely as a living, sentient enigma hidden within all of us.
However, one question must be answered: Can we say that we are truly living, if that which is inside us is somewhat inorganic? We are made of cells and muscles, but they die after deteriorating in their condition, or after they have become defective. If that is the case, would that not mean that we die a thousand deaths every day, and that the constructions of our bodies are built of inefficiencies that not even Nature can reconcile with the progress of humanity? We can think, we can reason, but the matter inside us dies without even a silent mention of its passing.
The building is made of inferior material, but the mind has taught us to believe that we are superior.