William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


I wonder about purpose. Does the universe have a purpose? Does the sun? Do I? Or are we simply here, and here simply, spinning, gently, of this music, and burning bright? Isn’t this enough? Must I impose myself on this miracle and whittle it down to my size? Must I choose one thing or another and say, This is why I am here? Must I be that important? Can’t I just be grateful and feel joy while there’s breath in this body? Or shall I think myself a success or a failure when I do or I don’t live up to my laudable goals and deeply conditioned sense of self and responsibility, while children play, birds sing, and clouds roam free?


[ 1731 ]

Categories: Daybook

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