Parts of me

Nothing of me is original. I am the combined efforts of everyone I've ever known. My arms and face and body are the only things the world hasn't changed. But the person I am today is a combined workforce of all the people whose lives have touched me. So I ask again, am I really an individual? In a world of millions or even billions. Is anyone an individual? With the multiple galaxies and parallel worlds, with so many somebodies and nobodies, is there an individual? There can be only so many numbers in an infinite. Even though the very essence of it is never-ending nature, there's got to be an end. I mean there's a start for an infinity but not an end? Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Isn't it? So if there's a start there's got to be an end. So I ponder as to what extend will an infinite number of possibilities will cease to exist even with their special eternal function. 

Is everything I stand for a combined effort of the universe to make me an algorithm of logic and reasoning? I am a numbered individual with parts of many other individuals. Does that make sense? Or is this another effort of the world's social conditioning to confuse till everything turns lopsided. My heads hurts thinking about all these possibilities and conspiracies and efforts taken in my world to come together with the other worlds of the worlds. Do I make sense?

Do I really make sense.
You are too the combined efforts of me as I am of you. I've left little pieces of me in you and you in me. Maybe that's where the concept of treasure maps and hunts are founded. We leave little by little in people and places we never knew we did, as we search through our whole lives trying to be whole. The person who is whole, is someone we call as saviour as he has achieved what we spend our whole lives searching. Is that what God and faith is? A faith we can't question and a god on whose names wars have been fought. Then is there really a point in being whole?

Life is so strange sometimes. It's almost been programmed to be a shit storm and the beauty of the human way is to find beauty in moments that aren't so shitty in a colossal of a shit storm. Maybe that's why it's called a beautiful life.

Now on that note,  slightly dark and somewhat positive, I wish you all a happy new year my dear readers. I started writing this post without a basic plot and let my fingers run wild. So welcome to the chaotic world of the inner workings of a person who likes to write. :))

Fin.