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talking to myself

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A place of home

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We are hurled through space at great speed,

In a Universe ever expanding,

Racing towards nothing,

The void already surrounds us,


Cold and lifeless beyond our small sphere.

Upon our home we are like microbes

So small are we,

Yet our lives have meaning and depth.

We live,


Suffer and die,

Though in the scheme of things it is nothing at all.

Yet we think,

Are self-aware and seek,

Knowing of the void,

Our coming deaths,

Asking why,


We long not just for life,

It is the ‘more’ that we seek,

A place of home,



Denied us on our pilgrimage.

We are all on paths dark.

The only light within,

Leading some to faith,

Others to despair,

Some to acceptance of the absurdity

That life seems to entail.

Faith in things unseen,

Nor felt,

Possible to some closed to others,

Some bitter towards those different,

Unique in how each denigrates,

The fruit of the need for feeling superior.

No matter the belief,

Nor hopes, or lack of.

Life is lived and the road taken,

Choices made,

Joys and sorrows felt,

Until one by one we walk through the dark door.

That is what pilgrims do.

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