Twenty minutes staring at the ceiling after a book and it's not like I solved anything just more aware of the dust motes dancing in the dim light seeping in from the bodega below like tiny ghosts or maybe I'm the ghost and the dust is just living its best life floating on air currents oblivious to my silent screaming into the void, tried to meditate, lasted three minutes before the questions started again each one louder than the last hammering at the inside of my skull why am i here what does it all MEAN and the absurdity of searching for meaning in a world that might not even care if we exist just spinning endlessly a cosmic accident and all this trying to fix myself is it just ego or a desperate attempt to justify my place in this indifferent universe, I think i'll just go back to the staring contest at least that way I'm not pretending there's a point other than to watch the shadows shift.