I will not deny my constant paranoiac state
for that will just prove that I am paranoid.
Perhaps I will never know the name of this disease.
Nor will I know if it is physical,
let alone fatal.
There is a man who you do not know very well,
although he knows the possibilities of you.
This is a person that you admire and respect, someone
that can give to you another chance to see;
and yet you already realize certain things because of your age.
Your youth allows you to be cordoned off from being closed.
You realize that the world may not end for everyone,
but that each world will end for each when each person passes.
Or what if that is not because of youth,
but because of some distant thought,
that somehow survived from a redundant former life?
And when that demon you encountered in that sage-toned forest
told you that you have already been, and you will be again, but that you will be the same,
and that you think you choose freely, and may choose freely, but it will all still be the same
would it matter?
Or is it just some kind of metaphor
another aphorism told to teach.
It is something that reveals the gravity
of each situation in order for you to strive to live carefully.
I fear that this journey will be short.
And that I will will never be able to fulfill enough.
This may be a reoccurring waste.
I am afraid that the speakers in need of attention will get exactly what they desire.
And have I not feared this lack of attention myself?
What does that make of me
I long for meaning as they do. Yet the difference is:
I long to be the voice of the insignificant.
Does the loudest voice have the quietest mind? At times.
And is there a notion of pain that is the same to all? If there is not, then the world ends every day.