Life is finite. Life is nothingness. I am finite. Everything is finite. Is there really a reason for existence? My life is but a clog in the giant machine called life. I am but a poor miserable soul in the seemingly infinite universe. What is existence? What makes us human? What separates us from them? Humans, so sure of their special existence. Existence, existence, existence.....it's a question that constantly floats in my mind like the constant nagging of an unknown noise. Sense of self, sense of me; do our finite selves really have meaning. Does our existence really carry the weight we assign to it? What is the concept of normal? Society, so complex, so much meaning, so much importance, shared empathy; sense of community. At the same time so abstract and fallible a concept created from the depths of the mind for the sake of human survival.
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A collection of poems and late night musings
PoetryJust a collection of poetry and late night musings I wrote, mainly to just vent and release feelings that I felt couldn't be explained in anything other than words. Sharing a bit of my grey world view with people, the stuff I write is pretty dark an...
