Was I tricked into life? By a charming cheating God?
Or was I bullied down by an enraged deity?
Or did I choose to arrive and someone waved fond farewell?
I wish I knew.
So I could move on with living.
Know its pointlessness or appreciate its significance.
All this mystery.
Do I own it or does it own me?
Perhaps it was conspired by the sky, so occassionally we stare up in wonder.
Or by the oceans, so we search their depths with keen eyes.
Or by babies, so we are full of wonder at their birth.
So in the end do we resign or get the pink slip?
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