The Book of the Dead.

If all my days were numbered from one to ten, with one being the best. How many ones do you think I'll have within my lifetime?
And if all my days were tens, eights at the best, what kind of life do you think that is?

If I spend all my time wishing to leave here, then I am not really living am I?
And If I am always fighting to stay, when can I enjoy the staying?
If life cannot be more than this day to day suffering in this useless shell with it's useless needs, if there is nothing more to be found, then the point of life is what?

Meaningless numbers on a pain scale?
Am I as well? Just a number? A rating?
If everything is measured regardless of it's number, and is in fact temporary, then my feelings are as well, however good or bad, but then where is the importance?
If it will always be a merry go round, just turning and turning.
Must my life be all this useless turning, I am dizzy and hardly see how it is worth it.