This thing called life
Full of sweat and thoughtfulness
as a novelist writes a dire novel,
Without a meaningful end but with a meaningful beginning.
This thing called life is
With sweat and perseverance,
as a painter strokes his ink,
Seated before on an empty canvas.
Like a mirage on a flooded highway in a hot afternoon.
Like pieces of maze with a missing piece.
A representation of the instant fast-paced future and the delayed present.
One creates a new portrait of oneself to admire.
This thing called life is a vigorous task to be engaged with all might.