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…


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