The choice is up to me
to decide how to narrate my story
from the impressions that are made
by your narrative and your choices,
under my interpretations.
It's completely organic,
cyclical, influential, and with side-effects.
It's like a lotus flower
that blossoms in a murky swamp.
Did your God choose to put it there,
or was it my fault that I noticed,
pondered, and reacted?
Was it a blessing or mistake?
Who even chose to make it my narrative?

The choice is not up to me,
I did not choose that outcome.
It was the bacteria that infected
the organism that made the choices.
The same ones that helped it flourish,
who knew that would happen?
Like a cancer, never fully understood
but taking the beauty of life.
Or is it enhancing it?
It's consistently inconsistent
and clearly vague.
This deception is reality,
that we know death will come
yet choose to live
so we can toil towards our rebirth,
fixing the problems we create
over and over.