Where Am I

Wherever I am roaming or dwelling,

be it in walking, running, in seating or thought,

where am I?

Even when surveying my surroundings --

from the concrete glass buildings, the still waters or the glaring sun,

where am I?

Even with the sun setting,

the shadows descending upon the pavement,

the winds gently howling or the clouds clearing,

where am I?

Am I but dust in the wind,

a particle of a greater canvas of which the artist creates,

yet still longing to know what my role is

in the midst of this giant masterpiece, in light of how small I feel?

Am I really nothing more than a memory,

someone to just upload and see today

but only to turn off and disengage tomorrow?

Is life really that fragile and crystalline,

in that at any moment it can all just come to an end?

How could I not feel futile in approach or ecstatic in dance

at such a finite yet puny detail that can skew perception?

Screw it, who the hell knows

in this digital world of internet because to someone out there,

what they're reading is just a bunch of 0's and 1's.