do i belong somewhere in this world or i am just taking up space?

was i meant to be for someone?  

was i meant to be someone?  

the questions pulse, restless,  

like waves against a forgotten shore.  

am i a constellation with stars misplaced,  

a map leading nowhere,  

or simply an echo of a voice that never belonged to me?  

was there a purpose threaded into my bones  

before i even knew how to stand,  

or am i just the residue of chance—  

a seed scattered by wind,  

rootless, homeless, fading into soil  

that never asked for me?  

do i carve space in this world,  

or does the world carve itself into me,  

chipping away at the edges  

until there’s nothing left but dust,  

blown silent across a landscape  

that will never remember my name?  

was i made to fit into a story,  

or am i just a comma in someone else’s sentence,  

pausing for a moment,  

then moving on, unnoticed?  

if i am only passing through,  

does it make the journey meaningless,  

or does it mean the journey was the point?  

am i here to hold the light,  

or to be the shadow that lets the light exist?  

perhaps the answer is neither.  

perhaps the answer is silence.  

but even in silence,  

there’s still the question:  

did this world ask for me,  

or did i ask for the world?