Friday, April 13, 2012

Feeling Sullen

It is said that life is a gift.
But what is a gift that never gives but continuously takes?
If I take this gift of life alone and do not add anything to it,
How much of a gift do I have really?
It is not like I could put it up there on a mantel
And smilingly stare at the ornate gift I have.
Instead, I must add to it, relentlessly everyday for it to be anything at all.

So I get another day of life. I don’t necessary want that day.
Indeed, if I don’t get that day, I will never know what I missed.
But now without asking for it, I have it.
I must find food to maintain this gift of a day of life.
I must find occupation to busy me through it.
What a bothersome gift.
What of it if I had never got it?!

Why was I brought to this place anyway?
I don’t necessarily like it here.
If I had never come here, I would never have missed this place.
Indeed, now that I am here, I positively mind having to keep up the gift.
True, there have been a few days when life was a blast.
But on most days, it is either redundant, bothersome or a royal pain.
Life. Such a random and high maintenance gift to give to another.
You get a gift and from that point on,
The most you can ever achieve is to maintain that gift
How then is that a gift?

I would say life is a responsibility
A meaningless and unnecessary responsibility
But it has us trapped because it breeds itself
You get life and 20 years down the road you breed more life
Another 20 or so years and that life breeds more life
And the infinite life continues
We get life so we can give life
There really is nothing in it for you the individual

Life is simply using you to propagate itself
And get this; it will be throwing you onto the skip
As soon as it concludes you will not be propagating it anymore
Maybe it won’t even wait that long
Perhaps on some random day, the so called gift will be withdrawn
No reasons given, the occasion for which it was first given unexplained
To live or not to live? What of that?
They are all just random whims of a random giver of random gifts

This is not a poem. It just seemed fitting to write shorter sentences.