Done

Who do you think you are
Someone special
Someone who matters
Someone —
Whose arms and legs, hands and feet, head and heart
Whose house, work, relationships
Achievements and failures, pain and pleasures, thoughts and emotions
Opinions, beliefs — all of it — matters

Do you really believe
That anything you call you
Or yours
Truly matters

Of course, you don’t
You can read, you can write
And you have walked
Past graveyards — many times
You’ve heard of time — and you know
That time wipes all

Yet still — somehow — you spend each day
As if things matter
As if your body — your head, your heart —
Are worth preserving
As if these words are worth reading
Those sights — worth seeing
Those feelings — worth having
Those journeys — worth taking

Knowing none of it is worth anything — nothing special —
You struggle
To keep, to get, to arrive
Knowing you can’t
All day long — day after day —
Decade after decade
You plough on —

Reading, writing, building, creating
Procreating, producing, preserving

Why —
Why must it be this way
Why chase futility —
Strive and struggle —
To arrive at pointlessness
Through pointlessness
In pointlessness
From pointlessness

What keeps you going
Have you ever wondered
Ever questioned — really thought

Could it be —
That you don’t —
Do any of it at all
That you don’t wish, nor will, to engage
In any of this
Absurd, pointless performance —
This repetitive, senseless, ridiculous process
Seeing it all so clearly —
How could you

Must it not be, then —
That you don’t do —
But instead
You are done

While —
Being tortured —
Doubly tortured —
First, by seeing the futility of every deed
Then — by thinking, believing, feeling
That you
Are the one who does them —
Willingly, consciously —
That you —
Are the doer of the deeds

Perhaps — still wondering —
Still asking —
What to do
About it all

Knowing full well
That if you truly were —
You’d never agree
To any of it all

And — perhaps — even knowing
That you — with
Or without your head —
Never have anything
To do with it all