Imagine you were born in a poor family, in a poor city, in a poor country, and by the time you were 28 years old, you have so much money you can’t even count it. What do you do? You make your dreams come true.
Why celebrate the day I got pushed out of some random vag**a against my will?[Otis Milburn: No one hates birthdays, Maeve.]
In the darkness, there are no rules. So, tonight Gotham, do what you want. Kill who you want. And when morning comes, you too shall be reborn.
You’re born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts.
Death isn’t only about the destruction of the body. Sometimes, just like that, you extinguish one self and another is born. But every birth is violent and there’s no death without pain.
I do not understand why humans celebrate their births. Everyone who is alive has been born. It is not special. A birthday party is just a participation trophy.
The cultures we were born into mean that we do things differently. And yet I suspect that we also hold many of the same things in the highest esteem.