Contemplations on a Cacophonous Whimsy

I feel a debris settling on my outer skin

of consciousness.

Is this the solemn reality 

of the coordinates and wheel of fate

that man must embrace,

if not be broken into?

Fragments are softly crushing

my outer skin

of consciousness

where truth lays.

But to live,

a fish must live 

in the water.

The air that concocts this debris

is part of existence.

One must learn how to live 

here.

For there is none elsewhere,

but sterile translucent films 

of nothingness.