January fifteenth. I’m home-sick for Autumn.
I sit by the desk and out of boredom,
reflect on existence, on being immortal,
on God that I’m lacking, and on God
that is present. The latter -- my own creation,
I’ve long disproved the former, became impatient
and left him, and to ease separation,
created a God from my own flesh and blood.
“Religion is the opium of the people!”
Opium eases the lives of the feeble.
The sun hit my eyes when I stared at the steeple, -
Thus I never saw God, never learned how to pray.
This isn’t to say that I have a lot to offer,
but I’ve welcomed the Holy Spirit often.
Every day, I’ve left all the windows opened,
no one came and now, some say
I’m deprived. I’ve heard many sermons,
many hymns and gospels. They make one certain
that Nietzsche’s right, that life’s a burden,--
if there ever was God, he had abandoned
his great creation to spin in orbit.
He hid his trail and took the forfeit.
Such tales though make the morning morbid.
I don’t have faith because I stand on
my own two feet and that is quenching,
I despise afterlife and the idea of aging,
and what’s more I’m stubborn and hate changing
my mind whether I’m wrong or right.
People are sheep and I refuse to follow.
To me, life after death appears too hollow
and not because “it’s too much to swallow,”
but because there’s nothing to bite.
I find my calling in mere existence!
The alarm clock resounds to start up my pistons
and I’m ready to go, and travel the distance,
and keep myself occupied all through the evening.
Whether I’ve lived as a saint or a sinner
is easy enough, - I just look in the mirror.
I find pleasure in life! I like chicken for dinner
And that is enough for me to keep breathing.
Tomorrow, I know I’ll awake in my bed,
with my love by my side, and I will extend
my left arm to silence the clock on the stand.
I’ll eat breakfast and the day will follow exactly
the same old routine as the day before it
and the day will reflect the night that bore it.
Future reflects the past and therefore, it
appears immortality’s fairly likely.
So, what’s the purpose, if life’s eternal? --
to transform the external into internal
(and of course vice-versa), to keep a journal,
to search for beauty, to search for purpose,--
to be!—it’s 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 it’s all so simple...