This new poem is contemplating the history of humanity and how we came to be – and for that reason it has been excluded from my up-coming poetry collection “Light Requires Darkness” as it simply didn’t align with the rest of the content. It is way too philosophical and not nearly personal enough, one might say.
However, despite that, I’d hate letting it go to waste, as I really wrung my brain attempting to write it in the first place. So, here you have it (and the collection will start to follow one poem at a time in the near future).
Perhaps the most human feeling of all is to be haunted by metaphysical musings on things that we shall never achieve certainty of.
Why am I here? Is there a purpose with life? With my life? Can I figure out what it is? Would it make me any happier if I could?
You can scare yourself to death by thinking too deeply on the subject – or you can seek refuge in absolute “truths” that save you from the dread of thinking any further.
I advocate a third option.
Perhaps it isn’t as important to wonder why I’m here
compared to understanding how I actually got here.
The benefit of changing the question is essentially
that you won’t be driving yourself crazy
over something you were never meant to understand
but can simply focus on how things are,
and they aren’t any less fantastic than the metaphysics
when you do get to think them through.
Is there such a thing as chance? Potentially –
I suppose that all of us are products of just such a thing.
Remember; you’re the newest link in the chain
of people – stretching back to the beginning
of our race.
How did that come about if not by chance?
Just those people meeting, those genes mixed –
history continually in the making,
never set and never fixed –
and here you stand, the final products
only in your head
since evolution carries on as well
once you are dead.
Appreciate the paths of our ancestors
who lived so we could live today
and who are always with us
although they seem so far away
that we rarely remember their existence.
You are accumulated memories;
they live within your body and your mind.
You are a throw of dice dealt out by nature
to see what combinations it could find.
Is there such a thing as chance? I guess so, yeah.
I can’t imagine how else we would be here –
accumulated chance becoming reason
that over time somehow reveals itself
in us, in art and culture – everywhere.
Perhaps there is no reason why we’re here.
Perhaps the question never meant a thing.
Perhaps the reason is of our own doing,
and something made by our own minds
each day and every day as we enact
our thoughts and wants and thereby shape the world?
Perhaps we are the reason in ourselves.
Perhaps it is our purpose to create one?
I do not know –
but this I know;
the paths our kind have taken in the past
for us to be here now
is more remarkable than anything religion has to say
on the matter of creation;
more splendid than imagination
and thereby, I wish to say,
wish to believe,
it must be meaningful and must contain some reason.