If I created this reality because I believed I deserved it, where did this idea begin? As a baby , in the womb, as an egg, perhaps from beyond the tomb? Did I create my struggles, and if so, are they that? What is truly real in reality, Abundance, or lack?
…is this a mission or simply a decision to dedicate existence to something?
And then, what is existence , if only created out of the minds persistence to fix, was it broken?
Do trees still grow through shady knolls? And if no one is in the room to experience it, does the tree even exist?
Did the trees create us out of a necessity to know if another being could see them at all?
ponder the meaning of the universe as they are
Do they fall only hoping that we’ll call it out?
Do we create because we hear them, pencil emissaries from the grove marching musings down our margins
Is this poem even happening in real time…. is time real? , and if I unveiled the fabric of everything,