Is this it?

Is this what it's all about? A void that is filled daily with meaningless tasks and menial deeds that go nowhere and end up somewhere for reasons unknown? Why should I care? Who should I care about? Who cares about me? And for how long before I'm forgotten? What impact does my existance have: forced upon others; fake smiles; roads leading to forks and forks leading to more roads which lead to more forks; choices whose sole purposes are to dissuade and discourage...

Choices made. Impacts negligent. Mine are negligible. Nil; null and void. I occupy a neuron or two in one's mind for a microsecond and then the energy is dispursed and dissipated into the universe. A faint flicker in the existance of time, and I'm gone. Miniscule is the nature of my being. The smallest of violins plays at my death. Even the violinist will retire to his room for a nightcap of whiskey the night of and before the next wake the day after, playing for one poor lad after another. How the irony is, for my own wake is when I am not.

My entropical soul penetrates the fabric of space at a speed that blinds, glazing over the eyes of those that just don't give a damn. A wandering ghost that remains as such, passing unseen through a crowd shrouded in a fog of everyday living.  

 

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