A dot
So small in the eyes but big in the mind
So dark yet too pure
So round yet so uncontainable
So close yet so distant to you and I
So replaceable yet so significant to be removed from history

The beginning of all hope yet the bringer of ends
The fullness of the color yet a hollow means
The cold feeling yet radiant light from it
The end but a loop of its meaning to creation

No point can compare to its light
No one or thing can compare to its beauty
No one such as myself can attain such light
No one such as myself can hold its beauty
But yet
No one can fit such a colorful yet spotless dot as me
No one can use the dot correctly unless it’s seen through my eyes
No one can understand its worth unless seen through my eyes

But who am I?
Whose mind am I to create this dot?
Who’s hands am I to hold this dot?
Whose eyes am I to look at this radiant dot?
Who’s touch am I to feel this dot?
Who’s pain and desire am I?
To imagine such a dot
So close yet so distant
With such growth yet one end
Who am I?
Who are you?
And who or what is the dot?

And why is it so
Distant?
So
Bright?

And why are you so chained down?
Why are you so burdened?
Why are you in such pain?
Why do you exist?
Why do you live?
Why do you know misery with no end?
Where are your happiness and joy?
Where is the dot?

And why is it to you a dot…
No that’s not right
Let me correct myself
Why is it to you this dot is so
Unfathomable
Interesting
Amazing
Enchanting

Yet so far
And simply
Unattainable

To you?

What is this dot to you?
And why is it only you see its worth?

Answer me truthfully…
Who is the dot to you?
Me?
No, the correct wording is
Who is the dot to us?
…

…
I don’t want to talk about the dot…
…