Hole In The Hedgerow

What are you supposed to be?

You aren’t supposed to be anything.

You’re supposed to be an upright ape,

Foraging for berries somewhere in the Sahel.

And I’m sorry you’re a thing asking that question.

I’m sorry you’re a thing asking anything at all.

I’m sorry you’re a thing that knows it’s a thing.

I’m a thing too,

Made from stardust and dreams.

I know how confusing that can be.

Being a thing with more thoughts than stars,

Being a thing that never asked to be,

For what seems like no reason at all.

A thing that never asked to be anything,

And yet here it is,

Filling a vacuum of space and time and thought,

Asking the question,

What am I supposed to be?