Sometimes life seems so two-dimensional
that I’m struck by the oddness of how deep it can be.
Am I existing in it, or does it exist in me?
Spinning so slowly we cannot feel it,
the world traces our paths in cosmic light.
Did I choose this path, or did it choose me?
The thought of reincarnation scares me,
yet there seems no purpose to living such a short life,
one that to the young seems so long.
These words sink onto this paper
yet when I touch it, there’s no trace to be felt.
Isn’t that my life, too?
If I’m not to be remembered, what is the purpose?
Am I merely one of billions of worker bees,
making a difference that can’t be individually felt,
except by the unseen forces that guide us?
A skin deep stain, quickly forgotten…