Of Ash and Fire

I have not been touched by a thought
As moving as this one night
Following a short meditation
That showed me the possibility
Of being a waste of an individual life
I have not followed the Socratic instruction
Of inspecting myself to any satisfying depth
And the inevitable question that comes from this kind of thinking:
What do I have to look forward to?
Philosophically it’s a good question
What sets this apart from any inquiry is the strings attached
And those are thin strings
Thin enough to be invisible
But strong enough where a strong tug
Pulls the underbelly awake
The dread coupled with a question
That asks the validity and necessity
Of the sanctity of life
Of whether those values are required or recommendations
The sunny disposition that I exude
Suddenly seemed phony
The road ahead seemed gray
Not lifeless, but rote. Redundant.
That’s what I’ve become.
Redundant. Obsolete.
Originality is fantasy.
The only thing to do is repeat myself
Repeat my day. My words.
There is nothing over the horizon.
Each step gravity pulls stronger.
I have not been torched by a thought
As I did this one night