You and Me

Here is another poem:

"You

You don't know you. I don't know you.

You try to understand yourself. You try to reason with yourself.

You want to exist. You don't want to exist. The insecurities of your mind bring up persistent questions that can't be answered.

You build a foundation of beliefs and dreams out of the fear that the lack thereof would make you nothing in this world.

Yet you know that you are nothing. I know you are also nothing.

Why?

You fear monotony, and cling onto individuality like a cry for help from your soul, hoping that in doing so you can justify your purpose.

You are important to me, as I am important to you. Yet you leave me doubting your capabilities of empathy.

Are you sensitive? You want to be-- but words as deadly as bullets deny the possibility.

You can try, but then you are not true. I will know you are not true.

Then, should you be true?

You do try, but I know trying is not good enough. I know what you want to be. But can you be?

Therefore:

Live up to the image you have projected, or I will break you apart.

~~~~

I don't agree.

I do want to exist. Without me, you would hurt.

I am me. You can't deny my being.

You can't convince me of my uselessness.

I cling onto individuality, hoping to show those I meet that I am not who you think I am.

I am sensitive. You know this. I am also human. You hate this.

I try. You know this too, but no matter what you say, I won't give up.

I feel suffocated by the helplessness as I see others hurt because of me. I am also hurt. I wish you could help me.

The stained cross lays broken, gazing at me, waiting for an apology.

The lady in black blames me in her world of deluded egotism.

To that lingering smell of gunmetal, I feel like a self-imposed lie.

You…

Just leave me alone."

A Grain of Sand

How many people have existed in the our world's history? I'm not speaking numbers-- try to comprehend the sheer amount of lives that have, at one point, existed.

Now, I'd like to ask: who are you in relation to everyone who has ever lived?

Are you all that different? Is what you do important? How can we, as humans who come and go like leaves on a tree, ever justify that what we do makes any difference to "the greater scheme of things?" Our planet, which we perceive as a large object that most want to travel around to get "life experience," can't even be compared to a small fraction of the universe. And so, in the incomprehensible vastness of space, how does a single person compare? How can a single person compare?

What are we? And Why?

These, of course, are questions that most individuals ask themselves at some points in their lives. I'm not giving anyone an answer-- this is purely trivial blunder that no one in history could ever start to wrap their minds around. Regardless of what one believes, the concept of "making a difference" to a large extent is laughable. Ambitions and dreams are wonderful things, but can't ever be achieved by a flawed, temporary unit such as me. I can reason that I can make a difference on small measures-- be it recycling plastic, or saving someone's life, which may be enough to satisfy my happiness-- but nothing a person can do is permanent, and even if someone manages to be remembered in history, that also will eventually fade away in one manner or another. One day, nothing on this world will exist.

How do we take that? Most don't think about it, because that's out of our control, and therefore is something most people avoid talking about because it eliminates everything we know to exist. It is a bleak and empty topic to discuss, since there's not much to discuss...and so people go about worrying about what they do have control over, like how to make more money so they can have more things, or what they should do over a person that's hurt them in their lives. And these small things are blown up to extreme proportions and exaggerated greatly, because to most people, we are our most important things.

I often wonder why we should bother with living at all. Wouldn't it make more sense to avoid the drama and fantasies we create? We die anyways, so what's the point?

But I guess that's not the point. As long as we find what makes us happy, it doesn't really matter if we're grains of sand in this vast desert. I just wish reality and logic wasn't this black and white. Someone tell me it's not, and that I'm wrong.

What significance will this post have on the universe? None.

Only concepts and ideas-- intangible things--"live" on, by people who suddenly stumble across them and decide to act in some way. And what happens to these ideas once we're not here anymore? Do they stop existing too?

It's thoughts like these that make me question the importance of our existence.