What to make of this thing we call Life?
Some offer answers from the Book they
say is “God’s” while others assert and insist
it’s all a matter of random odds. Perhaps
we’re in a dream not ours—but of the
One Complete. Yet if this be so, I wonder
more at His troubled sleep.
The oddest thing of all is that I find it odd
at all, absent a memory of what …
another life? If this is all I’ve known,
what other world could I divine? What mad
notion compels me to entertain something
more sublime?
Then too, perhaps the dream is mine alone
to write and play as I may choose, with
schemes and scenes and lesser dreams for
others to consider thus. If that, then have I
the Gods designed? Is my self-deception
so complete? Is such genius stuff in me so
devised to lay great Mysteries at my own feet?