Sometimes I know not where I stand.
The world has moved so fast, yet has left so many marks.
Past glories fade like mists that once gone are as if they never
lived.
All must stand alone in this—all must fight their own demons.
All paths in the end must be walked alone.
Though singular in the mind’s scope; they must somehow converge.
If they do not, what is this journey?
Are all the pain and chance and circumstance…random?
Must we simply fade?
As one father dies, another is born.
As one mother cries, another is made.
We are as paper torn.
Our scrambling lives are scribbles upon this parchment—Scribbles that eventually, no matter the greatness or frivolity,
are cast into the wind and drift, rising and falling with the whims
of
eternity.
Does the standing place really matter?
Maybe it’s all that does.
