Oliver: Spectator

I walked outside myself, barefoot on the pavement of my existence

to feel its cold, smooth shell under the even colder surface of my soles.

There isn't much warmth and comfort, outside looking in, 

so goes the well examined life, in strange detachment, being a spectator

to your own show, a witness watching.

If there is meaning to be found, it's not inside it, not in the scripted path of fate

that's laid ahead us, the lazy way that leaves no wake, nor yearns for progress. 

If there is meaning to be found, it's not outside it, in the immutable, eternally cold breath of countless distant stars, too far for kindness.  

If there is meaning to be found, you are that meaning, you take what resonates with you and make it matter, you raise the witness from its chair, you shift the balance.

Which path is real, which way is right? That's not the question. You think, you move. You move, you change, so think on purpose.