Two hours ago
I got a parcel and a note
which read, "You're welcome."
in letters a five-year-old
might've wrote.
Nonetheless,
I brought it inside
curious as to what
the light box was hiding.
A pair of scissors and
a bit of grit later,
the cardboard opened to
reveal a longer letter.
It read:
"The meaning of life doesn't exist,
in some sort of universal personification.
It isn't born with you at birth,
It isn't bound till death do you part.
Meanings of life bubble up
like an inconstant spring,
in small bursts of insight,
situational and temporary.
Meanings of life bloom
like new flowers in the
pretty month of June,
flowing and searching
and following sunbeams.
That particular meaning of life,
that path you followed so piously,
will wither
as it is short-term, dying
and spreading its seeds on
soft wind,
till your ass finds itself lost,
and those seeds sow again."
I sighed and closed the cardboard flaps.
This wasn't the life manual I ordered,
I'd have to send it back.
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