Quest (on)

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,

would I find a quilt ….
or a single string theorizing about it’s own existence wondering…
Do I even exist?
Perhaps there’s no point in postulating preemptively
no need to feed the festered future frustration.
Maybe we’ll be lazy and find ourselves happy to BE.
Either way I see, all these questions for me,
spin frequently and fruitlessly, even in sleep,
so maybe I won’t know the answers to everything, and perhaps when I discover, another chapter will happen there,
either way I’m existing and persisting to find the truest me, the I am, and to see, what it all means.
Or maybe I’ll go to the beach, and watch the cool breeze blow, either way, inside I’ll know, the meaning of it all,
is to flow

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