Who are we from the background of life or the absence of it?
An outcome of the events around, getting believed and shaping things.
Or the ones out there, trying to find moments filled with ourselves,
Some memories here and there and trying to recollect till the end of them.
Who might sound like us if we aren’t here to speak for ourselves,
Thrusting forward perpetually, thinking we make much sense to be alive.
If ever in this darkest room did the sun shine and we were brimmed with ideas,
If life was just another bluff we played with ourselves to not be declared failure.
If we knew what have we done to ourselves, it would have been just fine,
Just out of tonality, if we ever falter to sail through the obvious seas,
It just had to be with the notion that we were there with a reason to be there,
Else reaching the ends was never the aim that our ego would satisfy.
It feels, like life has happened and there’s no one to tell the tale,
And then, it’s a revelation that it was never your story, nor were you a character.
And that, out of the bust that you were dust, ever a minor, ever unknown to the world,
Ever living on shifting sands, never a believer, never a hero, never an actual story at all.
It cuts deep through us, the unending silence piercing the ears,
With so much for us to say, they aren’t there like they used to be.
You can’t speak, you can’t hear – is this all we ever wanted or desired,
The wishes have been answered and it seems highly unlikely to be ever revoked.
Read More: https://thewritersage.com/on-the-passing-thought/
