If I don’t find my way

The structure of my mind,
Is so patterned,
That I repeat myself,
Habitually, tediously,
Boringly, tiredly.
My present justifies
That, so clearly.

Essentially,
Life has replicated my mind,
Millennia after millennia,
Life after life,
The years, days,
Hours, minutes, seconds
That I have survived
Are but shadows
Of my past.
Each moment I have ardently,
Practiced my past.
Perfected it.
Being unconscious, automatic,
I have had no clue,
About the things I did,
Which always seem
To be new.
But, it dawns upon me,
How could that be true,
That anything of the past
Could be fresh or new?
How could that be true,
When it’s the conditioned
Mind, that I am living through.

I feel choked,
I want to tear
And move out of this skin,
Run away from this mind,
Its bondage, its everyday saga,
Its manipulation, facade,
Its incessant defense,
Violence and exploitation,
Whose primary victim,
Is my self and then
Everyone and everything
around me.

Am I alone
That feels like me?
What about my race,
The entire human species?
Have we all added
To the other’s misery?
But, what right do I have,
To ask this question?

Is my mind mine alone?
Is my conditioning my own?
Are my experiences exclusive?
Oh, I am a slave
Of my imperialistic mind,
But, my slavery is my inheritance,
Passed on to me,
By humanity,
It is innate,
Ancestral, generational.
I sustain it by
Serving my petty pleasures,
Conducting measly measures.
They breed, feed
Nourish and nurture me.
That is how I have lived,
And, if I don’t find my way out,
Then I feel I am ready,
To not only burn myself each day,
Till the end of this life,
But, ready with this foundation
For my pedigree,
For my lives,
For millenniums, to come,
And reproduce this same mind,
In it’s entirety.

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