The birds whisper things to me from outside the balcony door. "What will you do? What will you say?" But ask for no real answer. Instead they fly away to harass another victim of time to entertain themselves. "Have you done enough? Are you enough?"
And sometimes they tell me that I am just the product of certain circumstances. "Everything else is an afterthought of past mistakes that people have made."
The product of incidents.
People fear that they are nothing more than a patchwork of other people's personalities and traits, and in a way, they are right. We are all patchworks of chromosomes and their genes. We are hereditary traits hidden in the codes that make up our being. That is a knowledge the birds have left for me.
But with a growing number of over seven billion people, the combinations become endless. At the same time, the birds retort "Who are you? What are you amongst them?" Because nothing satiates them more than the sweet fruits of doubt from the seeds they sow.
YOU ARE READING
A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
