To Existing, Living, and Everything In-Between

A poem

I open my notes and start writing in hopes that the words I look for find me and find themselves so I may find myself in them

I am burdened with so many questions that will forever remain unanswered Like the cliché inquisition on the purpose of life and existence and the lack of control we have over existence and our apparent neglect to control life and why we constantly succumb to participate in the endless charade and how the participation of many in it fuels others to follow suit existence may be forced but life is the original mob mentality

I fear sounding like a cynic who questions everything without proffering alternatives and where there are no alternatives, spew the doom and gloom sermon that my type of people are all too accustomed to But What power has a man that is less than a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction in the broader narrative that his alternative, whatever that may be, is heeded?

There is no alternative.

Where lies our recompense? those that got out are too dead to let us know what awaits us on the other side My resolve; find a purpose, and if you can’t find one, pray it finds you, not to God, or gods, or whatever image plays in your head when you utter a prayer, but to your soul.