I’m having an existential crisis.

Another one.

The third one this week, if we’re being wholly honest.

It usually starts when I remember that
we’re all ants sitting on an orb
spiraling through a universe
filled with other orbs
with probably other ants
sitting on them;
other ants who could be pondering
if their realities are parallel
with other realities,
or if the monotony of their existence
will mean anything when the galaxy implodes
on itself and all of time collapses.

That’s usually how it starts.

After the initial ‘awakening’ to the
fact that I am indeed an ant
floating through eternity,
a tempering of corporeality washes
over me, and I somewhat come to terms
with my inevitable ending and invisible influence.

Somewhat.

Because really, how can we ever
shake the notion that nothing is fixed,
especially ourselves,
and
what even is a self?
Why are there selves?
Am I a self?
Out of all the selves in society,
how come I am this self, and not another self?

No, not again…

I’m having an existential crisis.

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I wasn’t sure whether to tag this as poetry or not, but I decided to go ahead, because poetry is a very flexible thing, I think. I’m one of those people who has existential crises left and right, if you couldn’t already tell. Whether that’s a bad thing or not, I can’t say. Probably a bad thing.