Sometimes, I sit and wonder if anything I've ever done has mattered at all. Barring a world changing destiny (ala: Einstein, Oppenheimer, napoleon, Ghengis khan, Hitler etc.) we wonder if anything we've ever done matters. What have I left my children beyond a name? What have I left anyone else? Have I done anything that has actually mattered? And while we ask this... Someone somewhere is painting us a picture with their blood. Screaming our names into a hot desert night, where the stars are tears, and the dust chokes the throat.
We wonder about our fingerprints lingering without ever realizing that our fingers held the force of a hammer strike, that the touch seared the soul like lightning. And all the while we remain blind to the truth. That while we wander, wondering about our fingerprints... There are people wondering, who wander after our footsteps. Just wanting a glimpse of that place revealed in the eyes, in the touch, in the breath that crossed our neck.
"Maybe, you were never really real to begin with... I just made you up to hurt myself."
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