What are we, but similar, distinct
Patterns in a platter of the same elements?
Why don’t we see a common conscious hint,
Despite the same fundamental blueprint?
The answers lie in the combinations –
All the attentive atoms which, unsure,
Arranged themselves in fashions
That fate has prepared the plans for.
So, is it fate that distinguishes you from me?
But isn’t fate just chaos and its entities,
And isn’t chaos just a set of unidentifiable, ordered patterns –
Patterns that decide to form you and me from inanimate matter?
As much as we love to ponder over life’s purpose, in tones hushed,
All we are, are egoistic, irrelevant, individual specks of dust.