I must always place a value on what I provide.
If I am an investment into the country's future, in what way will I benefit the economy best?
A cog?
A cog that tells other cogs where to turn? Or else am I to be the finger that tunes the grand machine, the brush that composes the obituary I inadvertently must have already made?
Another question: where should my priorities lie? In work? In productivity? In my passions? To prioritise these, must I kill these existential thoughts?
Indeed, is the key to contentment simply the absence of my questioning?
What is the point of a question when, in reality, you have no satisfaction in the answer, only in the masochistic demand for further self-deprecation?
I spiral to remind myself I exist. Would a non-conscious-being question as I question? And surely, in the absence of joy, such reassurance is clearly the last remaining avenue of protection I have left?
What is my value to society? Laid on a bed in a foreign city surrounded by unknown people faced with THE FUTURE, I don't think I could confidently answer. How could I ever find a footing in such shifting sands when, as I face "sink or swim?",
I elect instead to escape?

© Crisp