I am just a poor boy

I understand that my place in the scheme of things is very small. Miniscule. I could live and die without a tear being shed. My impact on this world is negligible. I guess I could have fucked my way to the top, that was an option once: sell my body, smile at the cameras. Become what do they call it? That thing where people create relationships in their head and project them outward onto images that seem life-like, anything that might contain consciousness but is flattened, powerless.

Inanimate matter: machines made for calculating become hyper-machines, godlike, consciousness projected upon them. So too pieces of paper, once trees, gathered together and sewn into pamphlets and books can take on lives of their own. Here, anything can. The whole world is illuminated, the poets already said so. The light isn't coming from above or outside, it radiates from deep within.