When I'm Gone

We let comfort wrap around us. The thing that always was. The thing that could always be. I race ahead in my mind searching for the picture that is the most real, but the only thing that makes it real is the comfort of it. Really there's no such thing as a sure thing. We become what our thoughts make us. We think we can be. or. We think we can cling to this thing that we perceive makes us happy. Most of us settle upon familiar comfort and call it happiness.
one line. Broken. unholy. They say there is a light in me. I see it diminished by the days that I silence myself, and I forget what it was to be empty. I forget nights spent tormented. I forget my demons and my angels. I forget moments that made me strong. They become lost within time that is a temporary moment of what the world considers normal.
What is it that binds?
Projection?
Expectancy?
Belief?
Faith.
Service?
What is the supreme goal of life?
Whom do we serve?
Time doesn't stand still for man or woman, and it doesn't answer to our whim or displeasure. We are what we make of it.
The ego holds us to what makes us comfortable, but not what will make us better.