The Book of the Dead.

There is a sadness in the simplicity of my life. The realization that there will never be more than there is right now for me, or the knowledge that regardless of my actions or a lack there of, I will simply exist no more, no less. Not a fire or spark, nothing remarkable for the eyes of the soul. Just a tired old shell moving along a footpath.

Season after season, day after day with no reason.
Nothing written in this book, or painted upon its canvas, or placed on its shelf.
Even such objects are utilized more than I am.

Life is a death sentence of meaninglessness, a
facade of color and noise to be mirrored as movement, a fairytale of happiness but nothing is real.

And am I the glass doll?
no simply a pebble of sand, a mustard seed, a grain of rice, a single drop of rain into this ocean.