I do not know if what I say to the questions of our absurd existence
is a suggestion or an offer of supposition inherited from the dreams
of a previous life or the dreams of my ancestors
It is not enough to be loved by a silent creator because we must entertain ourselves while we wait for the one who cannot be described except within the limited knowledge we possess of our own being
The question of taking oneself seriously must be answered with regard
to the value we place upon ourselves; are we special because we say so
or because we are loved by a parent we have never met?
But could it be the love of a child that makes us special in that the innocence of children protects their worth as what they desire from us protects our worth as the desire for one another protects our collective worth?
I once found the pursuit of my desires to be the path to meaning; it was as if pleasure was God but it was a God of selfishness and the pursuit of my own glory and when the truth was revealed I became nothing
Is it the impossibility of sustaining the meaning of life for its own
sake that draws forth the belief in the supernatural while simultaneously abdicating a belief in our ability to be empathetic towards those who share our fate?