There is no purpose.
Only borrowed lives.
Stolen ideas.
Debt-ridden breaths
we pretend are ours.
You think eighty years
is a worthy lifetime?
It is but a flicker, at best.
A sneeze.
A pixel.
We crawl like insects
across dog years of amusement.
We breed.
We kill.
We hoard.
We claim dominion over worms.
Over birds.
Over civilizations.
All of it placed before us.
All of it pre-borrowed, pre-decided.
We grab it.
Name it.
Worship it.
Call it invention.
We are not creators.
We are inheritors.
Actors,
reading lines
in a script
we cannot comprehend.
We are the dice
on someone’s cosmic chessboard.
Rolled.
Moved.
Sacrificed.
Never ours to command.
We stack meaning like blind architects.
Towers crumble mid-thought.
Religions.
Wars.
Love.
Fragile dreams.
All collapse.
And they, unseen,
drift beyond comprehension,
watching the cycle repeat
with patience older than stars.
Even the unknown suffers.
Even they drown in storms.
Burn in fires.
Glitch in their own matrix.
Chaos is impartial.
Entropy does not pause.
We die.
We fight.
We reproduce.
We suffer.
And somewhere, beyond vision,
a species
unknowable, untraceable
counts our misery like currency.
Observes the loops.
Places the next moves.
We mistake them as ours.
We are tiny, grotesque, screaming pixels.
Vomiting ourselves into eternity.
Nothing we call ours has ever been ours.
Everything we touch is rented.
Stolen.
Played.
Replayed.
And death
is the pause
we never get to play.
We are timelessly insignificant.
We are pointlessly alive.
And they,
lurking in the hollows,
prepare to roll the dice again.
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