The eternal gnawing question of why things matter to us. Why do we care?
Small damned creatures diving into pools of delusions with every toxic breath we take.
Thinking we have substantial pivots when we’re suspended in thin air.

Grab us by the ankle and shake us!
Shake us up and only a few will drop actual matter.
Shake us up and you’ll get handfuls of nothing.

We can’t even sense the pressure of the bubbles we’re boxed in.
Can’t even think outside the boxes we’re fizzing up under.

We make things, we hope to leave some kind of proof.
Would we have made them if we didn’t have a witness?
Highly doubt that. Don’t argue, we’re desperate for a crowd.

Sad bunch, hallucinating in the name of dreams.
Lying in fetal positions in the name of sleep.
Longing for closure.

It sits under our skin,
our whole lives,
this lack of closure.

We ignore thinking about how our endings amount to nothing.
We come forcibly, we leave forcibly. Sometimes.
Our existence is a violation of free will, yet we believe that we have power.

I’ll tell you that you are stronger than time and space combined.
Knowing very well that staying in the sun for a couple days could kill you.

We are powerful but fickle.
Terrible, magical.
But kid,
don’t take my word for it.


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