That I'm born is a given, that I'll die is a fact,
That I'll be old and ill is true- in this life's short act.
I make my moves fast, strive for health and wealth,
As if I can cheat death's radar, flying in mode that is stealth.
That I need you is a given, that you'll remain distant is a fact,
That I'll pine for you when you are gone, is my Faustian pact.
I hide my vulnerability, striving for power and fame,
Need to learn how to love deeply- and not just in name.
That I have a past is a given, that I've to create a future a fact,
That I'll fold under the weight of the choices, only seems apt.
I deny responsibility, claiming I was never free,
Distracting myself with philosophy- to be or not to be.
That I need a worldview is a given, that its arbitrary is a fact,
That I'm able to enjoy an absurd life, is both an art and a tact!
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