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Poem

Looking out the window at the world, I wonder,
Is there a consciousness that permeates every living cell,
Something that stitches together all life into a vast symphony,
Singing a score written by a solitary omnipotent hand?
Or is it all just a random scattering, discrete forms released
Into a mindless algorithm, biased towards the instinct to survive?
A world where even charity and love are mere selected attributes
To bring social advantage, just clever tricks to win the game of evolution.
What then is art—a sublime melody sung by the human soul,
Or just a construct of the mind, fabricated in the brain's workshop,
An instrument to keep our species occupied, nothing more than an evolutionary remedy
To prevent madness, while we are bound to our biological imperatives?
Yet so much seems superficial in the simple act of survival.
We build libraries, galleries, and concert halls, spaces to house
Evidence that we might be something more.
Is there something inside us that refuses linguistic reduction,
Something of an unearthly essence, pointing toward something deeper?
The heart yearns for a meaning beyond charts and graphs,
In moments when the stars mirror our deepest questions,
And moonlight floods our rooms with ethereal whispers.
Are we merely puppets orchestrated by unseen hands on a cosmic stage,
Or creators of our own stories, weaving magic through our art?
In silence, as the tapestry of night envelops the world,
This quest for understanding leaves traces in the sands of my consciousness,
Where thoughts glimmer like fireflies, each a tiny beacon illuminating the unknown.
The soul swims in the deep, seeking answers among the inner galaxies,
While outside my window, life continues its silent and mysterious dance.

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