Central Park

I’ve sat on a bench in Central Park.

Admiring the atmosphere around me.

Why am I here, and what am I doing?

Do I belong, or am I an imposter?

Living in a world I don’t know how to fit in.

But people walk by, and I think, why not me?

Am I deserving and don’t realize that I deserve?

Am I a lost soul, looking to be found?

There are rocks and trees and ponds.

There are lonely souls, homeless and wholesomeness all mixed in with humanity.

How do we differ?  Yet differ we do.

Still all human. Struggling, reaching for something called peace.

But peace comes in moments, and is impermanent.

It is a slice of time, and a slice of life.

It holds no substance, other than where we are, right now in this moment.

But then the moment is gone, and we are left with yet another moment that flies away.

Just like the words I wrote a moment ago.

And each moment builds a life built, a surge of being alive.

At the end life will leave. But the energy of moments are constant.

Whether they belong to us or not.

All we can do is dream, love, and drudge on.

Carelessly, foolishly, not giving thoughts to moments.

Keep moving, keep being, keep loving and keep seeing.

The moments keep us willing to live.

 And then we return to dust.

But our moments are etched in history.

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