Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Walt Whitman
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
We matter. Yes, you, me, all of us! We’re the characters in the grand drama of life. Each day, a new scene. Each moment, a fresh line. We’re not just onlookers, we’re participants. And this play, this unending, dynamic masterpiece—it thrives on our verses.
The universe staged the play, but it is silent. It handed us an empty sheet, a blank canvas. The challenge? To etch a verse, to color the canvas with our unique shades. Every moment we live, every action we take, every word we utter—they’re verses contributing to this cosmic sonnet.
In the end, our existence is our greatest achievement. Life exists, identity flourishes. We’re not just cogs in the machine. We’re the poets, the actors, the playwrights. Amid the absurd, we weave our unique strands of meaning. The play goes on, and so shall we, each contributing a verse.
