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Reflections on existence
 
January fifteenth. I’m home-sick for Autumn.
I sit by the desk and out of boredom,
reflect on existence, on being immortal, 
on God, which I’m lacking, and on God
which is present. The latter -- my own creation,
the former I have destructed. Imagination
has led me to have a long conversation
with the conscience that flows in my blood. 
 
"Religion is the opium of the people!"
If that’s so, then how come the peep hole
is not wide enough for the needle,--
and by "needle" I mean a warm ray.
Not to say that I have a lot to offer,
but I welcomed the Holy Spirit often,--
every day, I left all the windows opened,
no one came and now, some say 
 
I’m unholy. I’ve read many sermons,
many hymns and gospels and now I’m certain
that I’m with Nietzsche, that life’s a burden.
If I was God, I would also abandon
my creation and leave it to spin in orbit.
I’d hide my trail and take the forfeit,--
who wants to play king when life is morbid?
But I don’t have faith because I stand on 
 
my own two feet and that is quenching,
I despise afterlife and the idea of aging,
and what’s more I just hate changing
in order to be labeled by others as "right".
If others jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t follow
I choose not to believe in death,-- it’s hollow
and not because "it’s too much to swallow,"
but because there’s nothing to bite. 
 
I find my release in mere existence,--
the alarm clock resounds to start up my pistons
and no matter how short or long a distance,
I travel gladly. What can I say? I love living
and that’s why the question that bothered Hamlet,
does not give me headaches. I happened
therefore I am. For breakfast, I love the omelet,--
and the lack of such pleasures leaves me grieving.
 
But overall, I can’t say that life treated me badly,--
I have a great family and I am madly
in love with a girl and my neighbors are friendly,--
at least, they act so. Could life be better?!
I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,--
and I’m thankful for that. I’ve done well without
any help from a God and that makes me proud.
I firmly believe that tomorrow, no matter
 
what may occur, I’ll wake up, tucked in my bed,
on January sixteenth and I will extend
my left arm to silence the clock on the stand.
I’ll eat breakfast and the day will follow exactly
the same old routine as the day before
it and the night will reflect the night that bore
it,-- there’s a pattern to life and therefore, 
to me, immortality seems to be likely. 
 
So, what’s the purpose, if life’s eternal?—
to make all external become internal
(and of course vice-versa), to keep a journal,
to search for beauty, to search for purpose,--
to be!—it’s all so simple. The rest will fall
into place, as it must in nature. Each soul
will find its object of worship. And after all,
the dust will settle and truth will surface,--
 
and it’s all so simple... 

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