The Imponderable

The thinker stares into the space inside himself with some ignoble wonder, "Who am I...and why? "To found some mindless form of life and blame it on my sculptor... ah I see the timid wraith who runs away from my presumption; no they say it is awareness that I would not face head on. I simply stare at him, and he will flee, Now could it be it is not life I see but farther back into the swamp with some finality to focus on its germ that writhes and agonizes to prevail. "I am a stranger in this shell, a lark without a song, an infant arrow with a consciousness unborn; I am an instrument that tripped, became a God upon a grain of sand, that tumbled in a bowl of some primordial soup unable to decay. "I do not like it very much... that I alone must roar out to the edges of my mushy little universe, just what is fair and what is merely salty air to birth in, breathe, and die. "Or just...perhaps...there is another path that leads to the discovery of me back down the line, for at the basic level I do not know myself; the past I had did not rub off—it moved me just this far— the night is very dark as if to smother me, "or at the very least, my curiosity." ~