ephemeral or —
I was always found wanting —
like the sand at the cusp of sea, when high tides comes in. Yearning for the taste of salt water to drown me, take me back into the universe: to dissolve me into the fabric of what created me.
But I remain untouched, dry, blind.
I stay solidified, a grain of unknown substance and I fear I will never be part of what I am meant to.
Is this a purposeless existence? To what to do I owe the torture of living indignantly? Of always craving, looking, feeling?
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Am I an accidental formation? Birthed by a coincidental clash of the cosmos, fated to disintegrate into the flesh of soil I walk on?
Or is there something more, something bigger than myself?
When I look out on the bobbing waves, the changing sky, am I seeing nature’s prerogative or a deity’s game? Is it chaos or creation? Destination or destiny?
What am I? Human is simply a word; a term given to a mammal with sentience. A beating heart, four legs, but only two we stand on.
And what of language? sounds we make to form coherent — but what is coherent? Who am I to judge what sounds are nonsense and which make sense. But yes! What of language? Of thought? Of emotion?
In this existence, whether eternal beyond death or simply of this world, i am always wanting:
answers, happiness, but mainly — meaning.
i am wanting. lost, or found.
