We're dancing formless into a void of our own making
Carving silently into creation these silent similarities
These constants that connect us, the wild and free
animal that is humanity.
We don't speak of how we are the same person
Ignoring the fact that internally, we all desire
at least one or most of the same things.
The external differences are so demanding, pressing on our attention.
We can't let go of the old. We can't let go of most anything.
But in those quiet moments, we recognize ourselves
hiding so plainly in the soul of someone else
And in those sublime, religious moments, we realize
we're all just holograms, dancing into a void of our own making
Carving the connections that will one day make us one.

It could've been one second, or a million years
Time is illusory, pushed to the side
I miss every one I've ever loved
The ones that don't even remember my name
In these days beyond what I've left behind
I feel like a sailor, standing on the docks
I'm watching the white-cloth sails unfurl
Every ship is leaving the harbor
All full of adventure and hope
All moving forward
I'm left behind to sustain myself on memories
To live life alone in a place I hate
My heart is on the open seas
But my feet are on land
I'm not unhappy
I'm not happy
I'm just here, stuck in between everything.

I've shouted questions at the sky-
Hard ones, nearly unanswerable-
hoping against hope that somewhere,
Something might answer.
I've screamed until my throat grew
hoarse from the effort,
and stared up,
waiting-
wishing-
begging
for some kind of answer.
A sign.
Anything.
But there was only silence, ringing
deafeningly over the black expanse.
The stars went on shining as they had before.
It was then I realized.
The Cosmos doesn't care about me.
The Cosmos has cares of its own-
Forging stars and galaxies from dust;
Compressing the very essence of time into
unimaginable singularities;
presiding over the evolutionary cycles of
innumerable lifeforms.
Why would it care about one,
comparatively insignificant life,
on a world teeming with it,
in the outward spiral of a
galaxy very likely filled with other life.
It was then I realized.
Maybe I should look out for myself-
find the answers I seek on my own,
give up/leave behind my fear of the unknown,
instead of expecting the answers to be handed to me.
It shouldn't be that easy.

I am not a traditionalist;
I believe newness makes more sense.
So I make it up as I go along,
and my footfalls make a sort of song
rending silence till sunlight appears
And dew spreads like the sweet earth's tears.
Some stories are written, some left untold;
I'll write my own, before I get old.
There comes a fork in the road; decide-
I take whichever one feels right inside.
When you have no destination, any path is fine.
Some think that's a negative; I think it's sublime.
We put too many expectations, constraints on ourselves.
It's not good to worry; it's bad for your health.
Sometimes I wonder if human life is so short
because we spend it anxious about the hours we hoard.
That which you hold closest will slip through your grasp,
and our lives are so fragile, brittle as glass.
It's better to wander this world without direction;
let things come to you-and stop chasing perfection.

We are hopeful; we are loud
We are nonperishable,
Cyclic, changing-
Remolded constantly in a crucible of
re-understanding; unrelenting
Unvanquished, not even by death.
We are caring and wishing
dreaming, fulfilling
We are breath, in and out-
One, two, three:
Leap without looking
We are above all, hopeful
in the face of adversity
To be human is to hope.
To be human is to dream.
To be human is to be,
never to become, but just to be
Like wind ever moving,
seen and unseen-we pass
through one life to the next
leaving impressions behind.
We are purposed in that our purpose is
a thing to be found, to be sought
and even if it remains lost,
it becomes apparent at the end.
But even the end is a beginning.
There is no such thing as a wasted life;
no such thing as wrong
no such thing as right.
There just is, and whatever is,
is up to us to find.
We may never know where the big bang came from
or what was before.
But if we're lucky, we may one day know ourselves.

Closure is a fiction,
A word created to try
to make us feel better;
A desperate attempt to hide
the festering wounds
we all keep so dear.
The ones we hold on to,
cling to, out of fear.
No matter the method,
the hole never will close;
we try to patch it with band-aids,
but underneath, decompose.
The ghosts of futures
we will never know
continue to haunt us,
where ever we go.
"It is better to have loved and lost",
a greater lie never spoken.
Romantics leave us husks,
empty and broken.
We settle for someone,
when are wild days are done,
and we regret forever
the loss of that one.

We are star dust compressed by millions of years,
By eons of adversity,
Molding us, pushing us,
Until we became what we are.
Though our lives are short,
We are dreamers,
Our eyes constantly drawn upward,
To our origination.
We are the creators;
We bleed through quantum time,
Sculpting our universes as we see fit.
There is no sacred or forbidden.
Little circles constantly spinning.
Fate and choice intertwined,
Captives of our freedom,
Prisons of our own design.
Lilting strings harmonically ringing,
Over gulf of time;
We are integrally conflicted,
Oppositionally aligned.
We find hope in our struggle,
Love in darkness,
Peace in weariness,
Comedy in tragedy.
We are quantum creatures.
We exist between the lines.

Do we ever exist in more than just this moment?
Or is the person of the next moment a stranger,
Created for that second, and
Annihilated for the next?
Should we worry about anything, then?
Should we even care?