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Contemplating.

So much redundancy to prove a point,

although something false will never become truth,

no matter whether on repeat.


Too much noise to hear the truth,

yet what do we need?

To hear ourselves.

To hear the birds,

the trees,

the breeze,

our hearts beg —

please.


We are tied up in distractions,

only to realize the oasis we chased,

is nothing but a fleeting illusion.

The only thing permanent is impermanence,

but the only thing worth chasing is meaning itself.


Are we living life for others,

or are we living life to live?