Do you remember who are what we came from?

As rain droplets that fall so symmetrically into a formed circle,

Holding onto whatever we call reality.

Choosing to be here, no one but yourself.

These changes you experience are of no one's fault but your own.

Swirling around each new fly your fingertips come across.

Ask yourself, are these wrinkles formed on my hands my reality?

Our bodies do not speak for our own mortality,

But instead for our own creativity and our art.

So hold onto whatever is left of your torn body,

As it grows through it's last stage.

Alive in this hole we call reality.

Happiness is illusion, as well with the grievous tendencies.

All that is true is what you see before you.

Only the obvious is the ground we walk on.

Stuck in this dreadful hole we call reality,

But is it so dreadful after all?

What a cozy little home I've found through the wild.

I feel as if I should stay just a little longer.

Alive, I.