The art of BEING Star Dust

In the vast void of time and space;

There once was a speck called the human race.

No bigger than a dot. A speck of dust.

Might say the word, “Living”; if you must.

What defines living? I once tried to look.

“not dead.” “having life.” -It is defined;In Webster’s book.

Who decides what’s not dead? Or what has life?

Maybe God. Maybe my cat. Or Maybe your wife.

Maybe Shakespeare; ‘I think. Therefore, I am.’

What if just BEING is all that I am…

In my front yard is a rock garden; that my three year old, Faith, helped make.

It has white rocks with blue glass.(but I think the glass is fake)

Got them at the Dollar Tree for a buck.

Told my daughter that they would bring good luck.

Each one she loved and carefully placed;

In the rock garden. A small moment in time in space.

Made up of molecules. Protons and atoms.

The same as me. My cat. You. But my kid never fathoms;

Or cares; that once we were all star dust.

No wrath. no love. No anger. Joy. Lust.

Just BEING. That’s all we are. All we were.

If my cat bothered to care she would concur.

The rocks are just BEING. To my daughter; they are magic.

I think too much of star dust;and that’s quite tragic.

Who I am. What I’m made of. I shouldn’t care.

That I’m star dust; just as important as air.

Too busy BEING Laurelin. Don’t want to think of any of that.

Don’t want to be a rock. Or ‘a thought’. Or my cat.

I want to be ‘innocence.’  I don’t want to think; just feel.

I vaguely remember magic BEING real.

M.S. Addiction. Emotions. 34 years around the sun.

Start as star dust. End as star dust. We are all just one.

Moment of BEING. Did your moment count?

Perhaps. Did you take into account…

Nothing is everything, and if everything has meaning;

Than meaning is nothing. Ah, the art of BEING.

The insanity of it all. I don’t want to “contemplate.’

I just want the innocence back of when I was eight.

Now my soul passes to Faith, as my bones begin to rust.

Ironically I leave you with this- “Ashes to ashes. Dust to star dust.”


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