The Existentialist’s Choice
The stars are cold and silent in their height,
No script is written in the hollow sky;
We wake alone within the velvet night,
To find the "wherefore" and the reason "why."
No hand provides a map or steady guide,
No ancient law is carved upon the stone;
In every choice, there is no place to hide,
The weight of freedom rests on us alone.
But in this void, a brilliant spark is born:
To name the world and claim the path we tread.
Though we may feel the sharp and jagged thorn,
We are the makers of the words we’ve said.
The meaning is not found, but boldly made,
A light we carry, never to be swayed.
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