to feel nothing and everything
with no in between
to feel ever so deeply
but knowing these feeling aren't yours

empathy?

or is it mimicking
because the incapability of actually feeling

Life is an empty void—A mistake that happened on purpose. I would know, after all I created it. But whom created me? I am a curse—what if the god in the sky never knew what put them there? The day I existed was a day before “day” was created. Looked at my hands and saw a glove and never knew the wearer. Like someone without a story I decided to create one. Let there be light, let there be shoes, let there be meaning and a star and flute. I need answers on why I am the puppet man—on why I exist.

I created life to find the meaning of my own. The first thing I ever saw was nothingness I wish I was like other gods with answer to all, but the only question I can answer is what breed of dog you have. I called life a tree as joke—but people took it seriously. Why do I eat? Why do I cry? What is true meaning? How does it feel to die? I wish I was a mortal so being controlled will not hurt. Why is life? Why do I live?

I am tired of pulling this strings. But if I was to let go I don't know what would happen. A philosopher once asked me, "If you are all great and mighty, create a question you can't answer." I already did. Someone said meaning is in the absurd. My existence is absurd not meaningful.

I flirt with myself and embrace the tiny dot.  
Am I truly in love or a snail in the celestial knot?  
I wish to be happy, but my days say not.  
Depression is within me, and elsewhere seen fought.  

My planets betray me by not even talking back.  
I will die a spark that never grew back.

Consciousness is the ideal—the lens through which I experience life.
I see a cup, a beautiful one. I hear songs as I eat pineapple.
Each part of me coexists in total sense, yet meaningless.
And I cry—because I am living.
And living makes me happy?
That’s why I cry: because I am conscious.

Each step is complex, yet simple.
Smelling the air, filling with breeze—
it makes me feel squished, but in a good way.
Every thought has a factory behind it.
But what if there is no grand scheme?
What if things are just thinging—
a path we all made, walking forward because we can?

I will die. I know.
It makes me sad.
But that sadness—
that sadness is the happiness
I feel because I am alive.
So is consciousness an apple?
Or am I the apple?

Are we one?
Are we all?
When I die, is it the darkness?
Or the light?
Is it Buddha? YHWH? Hades?
Or just a mimicry of my imagination?

If consciousness is the apple,
am I truly consciousness?
But if I am the apple,
and I die today,
is there meaning in everything?

If there isn’t—
then the sun is a dancing snake
with seventeen eyes,
and no one can change my mind.

But if there is meaning,
then all truths are real,
and there will be no perfect.

Perfect is like beauty—
it is its own dictionary.
I see beauty in green grass and a world of blue.
Someone else sees it in a girl with long eyelashes.
So someone can be perfect.
But no one can.
It sounds like a paradox, but it isn’t.

You can be someone’s perfect—
but are you mine?
And what of the other eight billion people?
Do the ant, the lion,
and the baby giraffe have opinions, too?

Is consciousness a camera?
Or is it the apple again?

And how can God create in His image,
but not make perfection,
if God is perfect?

“I” is a character.
“We” is a symbol.
And I—I mean I—
I would rather live a meaningless life
than be a story with meaning.

Because in a story,
I am conscious,
but not living—
just controlled
by the puppet man with a beard
or the blue man who holds the world.

No, no, no.
Maybe it’s just a quote.
Or maybe it’s nothing at all.

So is the apple—
the one we know as consciousness—
sweet?
Or sour?

I think...
we just eat the apple.
I mean just one.

If it’s sweet—smile.
If it’s sour—
smile when the next one comes.

Life,
creatures of mud,
singing and dancing,
atop of a sunflower.
It's gracious, or crude.
Crude it is.

What have we seen?
Only the gracious?
What have we done to the crudes?
Endust them?

Have you seen a dust in the air?
It's our real value,
a small yet to be *****,
against this dusty place.

We are all dust!
Then what?
See the smallest dust particle!
Value him, could you?

We, have truly...
Truly have dusted the lowly and crudely.
We, have been too macroistic (only loving the big ones).

What could have we write,
in little ones?
Wonder to be him,
we learn to caress the kneels.
Oh, what an amendment!

Written in nobody.
Yet to be loved! Be loved!
For the kneeling ones!
Honor the peasants!
See high against them!
Oh, what an amendment,
written by our vague quills.

For us?
Love the leaf,
the branches,
and the plain wood.
Love them.
The same as you do.
Do what?
Love. Love what?
The golds,
the rubies,
and the silvers.

My thoughts aren’t really mine,
they were planted inside my mind.

Just like my feelings aren’t mine,
they just follow what’s called right.

Neither is my face mine,
a mixture of all ancestors.

My body also isn’t mine,
it will die and decompose.

Nothing I own belongs to me,
I will lose it all when I die.

And if none of these things is my own,
then,
who am I?

I shouldn’t have opened the box,

because Hope was forced to hope for all evil.


I shouldn’t have checked to see if the cat was dead or alive;

it wasn’t—the hammer didn’t hit—but it starved to death.


I shouldn’t have replaced all my ship’s parts,

now I have two, but the original is still broken.