Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.

There is no hope,
There is no desperation,
Life flows like water,
Neither bad nor good.
If this is true,
Why can I feel?

My ill-filled mind adrift on winds ethereal,
Hopeless, I muse on my own burial.
I dug six feet in foreign lands immemorial,
As ruminations run wild, rabid, and feral.

Imprisoned self, reborn as antisocial,
Past cohorts are now strangers, fantasmal.
Depressing illusions intensify suicidal,
Knocking on doors of the heavenly celestial.
Yet kneeling at the pulpit feels nothing special.

Words misunderstood, deemed uncolloquial,
Unbothered to learn, It's deemed impractical.
Learning the language they use in their imperial,
To make my plea resound consequential.

𝒩𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒶𝓁!

"𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒌! 𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆,
𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.
𝑻𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.
𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒍𝒆' 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔, 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍?
𝑨 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒚 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒍.
𝑫𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓?
𝑶𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓?"

For endless ages, I wait in vain,
Enduring this stone-hearted disdain.
Forsaken and lost, your silence profane—
An eternal ache, my solitary refrain.

the phone - it calls:
my impulse crawls
back to the moment ‘twas
mighty, and strong;

the tv on the drywall -
knows how to stall -
my mind from its prime;
my body from a shawl --

i feel my palms
so cold - and remote:  
the channel shows
a woman in a fur coat;
she looks so sad -
with all she has;
she quits on love,
doesn’t leave a note.

i turn to music;
tune to the rhymes -
my sorrows of the day;
i buy some time:
debt looms over -
menacing, by the day;
volume seeks heed -
i cannot pay.

done for the day,
i put the phone down;  
the screens go dark -
make me look like a clown.
i cannot keep tabs on
on all my regrets, so -
i force the ******* laptop
to shut down.

there’s a great divide -
between the anatomy of my brain,
and the fluidity of my mind;
i struggle to make the crossover,
for i must advance in phases
in between their flimsy makeovers:
in, and out -
then back in again.
the brain is humbled by its own mortality;
the mind boasts of an eternal life;
both petrified by dubious thoughts
of yesterday -
and the day before that -
and the month before that -
and the years before…

as i regress -
slowly, and infinitely -
i long for my natal mind,
and a tougher cranium.

not quite the beginning
but not the conclusive ending
there is no dramatic sadness
nor joyful champions

this is the hedges of the story
not included in the final manuscript
left out and scratched off
for this is neither interesting nor satisfying