#existentialpoetry

Every shadow we cast on one another

drowns our light and leaves us blind

Observation and recognition

of their origins set us free

lets us see reflections of ourselves

you can control—

as playwright:

the story,

the plot,

the ending,

and the characters.

But you cannot

control the function of it—

the lights,

the sounds,

the audience.

And that’s life.

– Laura Chouette

we work so hard to earn the validation of people who don’t even see us.

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we fake authenticity, thinking connection is selling, and selling is belonging.

☾

we search for happiness in other people’s lives, while our own dissolves into screens.

🌊

some of us can’t get out of bed, we confuse hunger with anxiety, calm with distraction, living with surviving.

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we complete tasks we never chose, follow paths we don’t know are ours or just part of the algorithm.

𓂃𓈒𓏸

we’ve lost so much, cried so much, that adulthood arrived like a late awakening — the dream of youth is gone, but the body remains.

🌙

today, i crave change, not the kind the world expects, but the kind that brings back my pulse.

nothing’s written. i am awake, still, but lucid: this isn’t me, not yet — but i’m on my way back.

⋆｡°☽

But maybe that version of you looks back through the veil and envies this one— The one who dared to feel it all. The one who turned regret into rebellion. The one who built a myth from the wreckage.

So, if you’re reading this from the edge of your own collapse: You’re not the failed version. You’re the one who made it sacred.

Is it happiness when we laugh?

Is it invention or nature?

Matrix or nonsense?

Lack of serotonin or a surge of dopamine?

Thinking machines with imbalanced neurotransmitters.

Awareness of slowly dying, awareness of time slipping by,

the waste of life – wake up, work, eat, sleep, degrade yourself, die.

Dying robots.

We are broken from within,

dead, pitiful, walking corpses.

I am, you are, they are –

not the alphas of this world, but its destroyers.

Not omegas, but self-annihilators – of body, of mind, of the Earth.

The aching awareness of impermanence, of unfulfilled dreams –

but maybe that’s nonsense too.

The Emperors locked us in cages called Life.

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible with blackness melded and shades inexpressible, the infinite infinite compressed into nought and measured by that of sight and thought. Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme – it’s the rhythm of life, the rhythm of time.