A question haunts me, as it always has,
A heavy inquiry, a relentless pass.
It seeks a reason for this bitter stay,
A purpose for the grinding, mundane day.
I once believed a holy purpose given,
A sacred contract made with distant heaven.
To serve a godhead, in solemn and cold grace,
And earn a place in some unearthly place.
I later found a humanist's strict creed,
That we alone plant our own conscious seed.
We built our own meaning, with sterile, cold art,
A testament of reason, from mind and from heart.
The hedonist's lesson, a fleeting, brief joy,
A sweet, shallow solace to fill and destroy.
"The purpose of being is to feel and to taste,"
A fragile, fast moment, so quickly erased.
And then the void spoke, a truth bleak and grim,
A nihilist's insight, up to the brim.
"There's no purpose to find, no meaning, nor why,"
Just cosmic indifference beneath a cold sky.
I once embraced a truth of radical choice,
The existentialist's firm, defiant voice.
"You must forge your own meaning, on paths you create,"
A solitary burden, a burden of fate.
I remember the Stoic, so poised and so grand,
With a tranquil stillness I could not command.
"The meaning is virtue," their words would impart,
A cold, simple solace for a tempestuous heart.
But the final wisdom, the one I now claim,
Came from a simple life, a burning, clear flame.
A quiet retreat from the world's grasping hand,
To truly confront and to finally understand.
That a simple life is not just a choice,
It's the only real path for the soul to rejoice.
For in a simple state, unburdened and free,
We find a raw purpose, the truest of me.
Not given, not built, but brutally unveiled,
Where the noise of the world finally failed.
No comments:
Post a Comment