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Reflections on existence
 
January fifteenth. Iím home-sick for Autumn.
I sit by the desk and out of boredom,
reflect on existence, on being immortal, 
on God, which Iím lacking, and on God
which is present. The latter -- my own creation,
the former I have destructed. Imagination
has led me to have a long conversation
with the conscience that flows in my blood. 
 
"Religion is the opium of the people!"
If thatís so, then how come the peep hole
is not wide enough for the needle,--
and by "needle" I mean a warm ray.
Not to say that I have a lot to offer,
but I welcomed the Holy Spirit often,--
every day, I left all the windows opened,
no one came and now, some say 
 
Iím unholy. Iíve read many sermons,
many hymns and gospels and now Iím certain
that Iím with Nietzsche, that lifeís a burden.
If I was God, I would also abandon
my creation and leave it to spin in orbit.
Iíd hide my trail and take the forfeit,--
who wants to play king when life is morbid?
But I donít have faith because I stand on 
 
my own two feet and that is quenching,
I despise afterlife and the idea of aging,
and whatís more I just hate changing
in order to be labeled by others as "right".
If others jumped off a bridge, I wouldnít follow
I choose not to believe in death,-- itís hollow
and not because "itís too much to swallow,"
but because thereís nothing to bite. 
 
I find my release in mere existence,--
the alarm clock resounds to start up my pistons
and no matter how short or long a distance,
I travel gladly. What can I say? I love living
and thatís why the question that bothered Hamlet,
does not give me headaches. I happened
therefore I am. For breakfast, I love the omelet,--
and the lack of such pleasures leaves me grieving.
 
But overall, I canít say that life treated me badly,--
I have a great family and I am madly
in love with a girl and my neighbors are friendly,--
at least, they act so. Could life be better?!
I wasnít born with a silver spoon in my mouth,--
and Iím thankful for that. Iíve done well without
any help from a God and that makes me proud.
I firmly believe that tomorrow, no matter
 
what may occur, Iíll wake up, tucked in my bed,
on January sixteenth and I will extend
my left arm to silence the clock on the stand.
Iíll eat breakfast and the day will follow exactly
the same old routine as the day before
it and the night will reflect the night that bore
it,-- thereís a pattern to life and therefore, 
to me, immortality seems to be likely. 
 
So, whatís the purpose, if lifeís eternal?ó
to make all external become internal
(and of course vice-versa), to keep a journal,
to search for beauty, to search for purpose,--
to be!óitís all so simple. The rest will fall
into place, as it must in nature. Each soul
will find its object of worship. And after all,
the dust will settle and truth will surface,--
 
and itís all so simple... 

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