We might have lived here for millions of years, walked, ran or jumped in jest, been kings, slaves, crooks or sage, or the lion, bird or a snail, perished or preyed. Yet, all we have now is a remnant, this mere life, and a dream that appears big enough to chase. Enter another, this too might all be a void.
As I disappear every night into the abstract darkness, with futile attempt to understand the answer to the unanswerable, it seems to me that I must have been born a million times - with this consciousness in different identities. Why is it that I'm here again rambling in the incessant orbit of life? Much as absurd it might seem, a distant nonchalant version of me out there in the universe might just be laughing at me for my trivial ambitions.
Yet, do I have a choice?
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