just as I sit here in bed, in Mt Waverley, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, the earth, I cant but help think what its all about, what really does it matter, what difference does it make what it is I do, I sit here and look at my fingers, are they mine, do I really own them, I can move them, and they can cause me great pain, and yet they are constantly changing, and aging, what difference does it make what I do, what is the point of all this, what happens tomorrow, who knows, but what I know is now and now is all I have and the only time i’m actually alive is now, not yesterday, or tomorrow, i’m not alive tomorrow, or though I may be living tomorrow, and yesterday which has been, I lived, i’m not alive yesterday, people seem so hell bent on criticising everyone else, its so easy to criticise, why don’t YOU FUCKEN DO SOMETHING TO HELP, what difference does it make, I laugh, I cry, I get angry, I get greedy, I get hungry, I get full, I get afraid, I get disgusted, and yet I don’t know who or what I am, I have so many labels, and am so confused, I still don’t understand what, why I am here, why is all of this here what difference does it make, sometimes I just feel what’s the point, what’s the bloody difference………………
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In the Garden of Solitude
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