My life is a path of consumption.
I consume air, water, life.
I am both life and death,
Benefit for some and nemesis for others.

But is this by my choice?
This choice I don’t remember making.
When I was made in my mother’s womb
I don’t remember being questioned.

I was born into this world
in a complex cacophony of feelings.
But I am just a stone in mason’s hand,
A cog in a piece of machinery turning on its own accord.
I am allowed to witness the process,
but I m not allowed to change it or to interfere.
I cannot hope to understand
the meaning of it all.

So I remain a mere bystander
dumbfounded and clueless about the bigger picture.
Is this a masterpiece of which I am a stroke?
Or is this some abstract vomit
spread over a dirty canvas
by a deranged megalomaniac
where I am a piece of a half-digested food?

To know the answer
squeeze me like a tube!
And I will yield more color.
Make me into a kitsch
and I will be forever grateful
to your undying genius.