An original thought is an accident
and an invention is inspired
After all, we live in another man’s idea of a mind
The creation by you is laborious
like making a sculpture from a stone
It’s not the movie version of progress
where it seems entertaining in a montage
It’s a slow burning sensation of routine
like a Sisyphean act of creating the sun
from a spark of fire

The pointless of it all gets to you sometimes
until it all makes sense finally
but forgetting is our birthright
So the pointlessness returns for it forgets no one
The existentialist in you a prodigal son
leaves you asking for more questions
than any amount of answers you can provide
but wasn’t forgetting your birthright?

So I leave you with one question
that is sure to answer
all your violent delights
all your burning sensations
all your questions about your personality combined

Who are you when no one’s watching?
Is it defeat personified or a personified delight?

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