We all die. There is no escaping the simple fact that life, as beautiful and filled with wonders as it is, is meaningless. Earth. A spinning ball of life and light, so free as a vision, yet we suppress these things. Let's build a house that will stand for three hundred years, when I will be here for a fraction of it's existence. Let's build a city around this house, and grow. But for what? You can work so hard for an accomplishment based on personal ideals, but it will be torn down and replaced with someone else's thoughts. We are cattle. To ourselves. We wait in a line of jealousy, pointing red fingers to the pure ones, and the pure ones turn impure. We mill around as if there is a purpose. We create, we sing we write we love we laugh we cry we grow, and we die. A lifetime of, anything, cut down because there is no because. There is no answer. There is no divine entity who overlooks us. There is no afterlife, resurrection, free floating energy, or cells that live on. There is eternal unconsciousness. Nothing. Black, or white or grey, or nothing. And we'll never know. We live in a space so small compared to the rest of everything out there. Past our planet, somewhere in the farthest reaches of the universe(es), there is life, bounding and free, true beings, maybe like us. Maybe they looks similar, and feel the same emotions. Maybe their emotions are different. Maybe their technology surpasses ours. Maybe they are primitive, waiting to learn. Maybe they are us, in the past. The sad, simple fact is that we will never know. We continue to spiral towards our own self afflicted demise, unknowing, selfish. All the wonders of discovery beyond us is lost in the folds of envy and anger. And our own natural timeline. You will die. Your family will die. Everyone you know will die, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do to stop this change. We write poetry to staunch a certain emotion, or maybe to bring rise to one that we favor, but this is all nothing. Who cares about how your friend died, or how I broke up with someone, or how cute your cat is, or what boat you sailed on? It's pointless. Words only help to reflect the pointlessness of it all. We give voice to the sheer depression. Life is not a game, or a puzzle, nor is it an answerable question. It is, and always will be nothing in the end. I write to drain myself, to remind myself that I am in fact, a breathing, living human being, for the time. I write for the nostalgia of futility. For the embrace of hopelessness. Why do you write? Tell me, why bother?
