The world is at my fingertips.
I am an architect,
building my masterpiece in the skyline.
I am an artist,
painting the world into a work of fiction.

I seek to name every star in the sky,
to measure the emptiness in between.
I wish to speak every tongue,
to finally find words adequate
to describe the beauty before my eyes.
The pen scratching the paper,
the ticking of the clock keeping time,
are the symphony
accompanying my life.

Though
it often feels to be more conjecture than evidence.
Does the pattern of science
really improve our understanding?
There has to be more
than what is limited to time and space.
Nothing I can feel with my hand,
see with my eyes,
hear with my ears,
ever measured me any happiness.

The very existence of this world,
the breath rushing in and out of my lungs,
a heart thundering in my chest,
are evidence of a bigger,
“something” more.