Thursday, 5 November 2009

Insignificant questions

There is a reason for being,

I must believe that with every fiber of mine,
for what are we without purpose?
An empty shell? Merely a vessel?
A collection of atoms, intricately formed,
yet still of little significance against
the backdrop of trillions.

We are born, we live, we die.
So are we really so much greater than a flower,
whose entire significance for being is to produce?
What do we mean in the grand scheme?
Are we really a cosmic accident?
Just an incident? Something that just happened?

No, I say these questions don't matter,
For it is not our synonymous destination,
but the choices on the path we take,
that truly defines us.

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