Something about this

All the curiosity and question of self.
The searching for answers, the existential.
The meaning. Or lack of meaning.
Of this.
Yesterday and tomorrow.
This. Here.
Something about purpose.
An existence for reason.

But it's more simple than imaginable.
And the thinking and pondering bring me further from this.
All the why and what next...

I'm a man. I'm a boy. On a planet. In a universe.
Revolving around the sun.
A father.
A son.
A person.
A speck of dust on the table.
A two legged mammal walking about, and into a room;
Out from the cold. Out of the heat.
A thought.
A memory.
A sea of hopes and a desert of dreams.
Wrapped up in an atmosphere.
Of air and sunlight and darkness and space.
Cool water on my face, a faint laugh passing through a thin wall.
A day begins and then ends.
And it will always do this.
Whether I'm here or there.
On this, or in this, or out of this, or part of this.
Dust collects and cells transform ... becoming me.
Becoming something else.
But always the same.

And then there is today.
Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.
Just today.
Get to know it well.
As there's not many yesterdays.
And you never know about tomorrow.

WritingChris RonanComment