Sometimes the world feels staged,
Like in a theater
we i am the actor
and the onlooker,
The observer who participates
and the actor that spectates.
The everyday cycle
With the occasional thrill,
The predictable plot,
and the bland sourness and confusion.
Feels like a dream in a dream,
An unreal loop
The constant questioning feels
Like a character
Realizing his existence in the setting .
Yet the setting is all there is.
Binding his mind
As this soul,
A molecular speck of dust
In the many centers
Of the outstretched universe,
yearns for the day
when the final curtain is drawn,
The day when i am
Why have I changed so much?
Referring to past photos I’ve found myself a different person.
Why have the times slip through my fingers like sand?
It feels as though I’ve been stuck in quicksand, failing to progress but instead regress.
Why, of all things in the large scale of this universe, should I worry?
Why of all the words in the world do I not know how to describe this feeling within?
But everything else was silent.
Putting on that poker face,
Acting through the façade,
Smiling through the cracks.
The darkness within engulfs you,
The vines in your heart entangle you,
The shifting shadows enwreathe you.
You can feel the accelerating rhythm within you,
Still starts your mind racing.
I remember the times, a past so long ago, when as a child there wasn’t a care in the world. Who cared about tomorrow when tomorrow had no worries?
When my life was a clean slate.
I do not know.
At the point in time this is written, all I know is if there is life
there is death.
Nothing last forever, not even the universe.
In this short pathetic lifespan of 80? 90? Or even hundred years, God knows how long(or short), of living, what do I do? Does it even matter if it still ends the same?
What’s out there? Beyond our universe? (“Beyond” is probably a human concept and perspective too)
Is there time or any of our physical laws “outside” our universe? Or is that, too, just a fragment of this universe?
Why do we even try
when we are this measly small and extinguishable
What is the meaning of life?
Why do we try so hard when, after all, we are still specks of cosmic dust?
All these end when we draw our final breath, so why
Do we live?
When after all we have created our own environment
Outlived our purpose of survival
Disregarded the animal instinct
Cramped ourselves into those small office cubicles in the concrete jungle
When on the other end of the globe, they have barely any life in them
For whom does the bell tolls?