Today I am happy,
today I don't know what to write about.
I think there's a connection,
that I've developed the bad habit
of writing only when I'm depressed.
That's why today
I'm forcing myself to write,
to write more than naughty feelings,
to write about life
and only ocassionally about death.
Is life not worth writing about?
You see, I'm a scientist in mind,
so, naturally, life comes to me as a surprise,
unprepared,
maybe that's why my body was off
by a big margin,
maybe that's why my brain
functions only from time to time.

I digress.
What I ment to say is
that life is so ******* wierd is crazy.
Think about it,
we are pieces of universe,
barely distinguishables from our own selves,
who observe the universe.
Wouldn't bet with those odds,
yet here we are,
and what's more crazy,
we appear to be able to tell
the difference between now and then,
to call ******* on some stories,
yet,
we are not *******,
we are alive;
we have memories but we are not them.
We make them.
Our past is but our future,
it just came a little earlier,
let's use its help to be prepared
for what is to come:
Life.
Isn't it crazy?