Questions

Who am I?
How did I get this way?
And what will I be next?
When am I going to change?
And where will I be when it happens?
The magic of the questions,
Is that the answers don’t matter.
Who I am,
Is as different to me,
As it is to each man, woman, or child who meets me.
Perception is reality,
And each one of us perceived each one of us differently.
How did I get this way,
Is as relevant to ask,
As it is to ask how colors became colors,
Or smells, smells.
It is what it is,
Can’t be changed,
And probably shouldn’t be,
Even if it could be.
What will I be next?
What is the value of focusing on an impossibility?
There is no way to know,
Psychic or otherwise,
Who one is bound to be,
Be it tomorrow or a thousand tomorrows.
We all grow,
We all change,
We all learn and we adapt,
No reason to sit and predict,
Or postulate about it.
When am I going to change,
Is as simple to answer,
As now,
And now again,
And now.
It is constant,
If not imperceptible,
So why question the thing?
Where will I be?
Well why does it matter?
There is no fun,
I know,
In answering a question with a question.
But why?
Why does there have to be a time?
A place?
The world doesn’t change just because we do.
It’s always changing,
And you are too.