It's a strange thought to think that I am not just singular and free,
But a collection of the world, and all the world's just a part of me.
My thoughts, they come out, the world too,
It comes in, fused together, shapes make do
When every chair is just some wood, a function, and a given name,
Without the floor, the room, the maker, it could never be the same.
You see an object standing there, a thing to hold, a thing to see,
Believe it has a life on its own, but it's defined by you and me.
The body without us is no living, yet feels lived
The moment a joy appeared, was it earlier grieved?
A single deed has no true substance, a silent thought has no reply,
What is a doer without the doing, beneath an empty, watching sky?
A promise of a solid being, why does it feel like shifting sand?
This whole existence feels so borrowed, held in everybody else's hand?
Seated at my place, I have encountered too much already
I have lived a lot of lives, yet I don't see me steady.