What’s The Point.

Whats The Point. prose poem

Photo by Shek Graham

Why do we exist?
What’s the point really?
Are we here to have fun?
Are we here to accomplish something?
Are we here to hurt?

We are dropped off on one end of a conveyor belt then
chug along as the conveyor takes us for a ride to eventually tosses us off at the other end.
Along the way we are taught things, we are told to do things, we
learn, we work, we play, we suffer loss, we laugh, we cry, we love and we hate.

Along the way some help others some hurt others. Some cheat, some lie, some step over others, some give others a helping hand.

Some think at the end of the ride there’s a reward or punishment for
how we behaved. Some think life is a test.

Some are afraid the end means just that, the end, once tossed off
we cease to exist our conscious evaporates into the ether.

No one really knows for sure. Some will say they know, but they really do not. Seems to me, if, at the end, as you’re about to be tossed off if you can look yourself in a mirror and know you left the place a little better than you found it, then the ride had purpose it had meaning.

That should be reward enough.

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