For a Lost Cause

 There are things that move through me, scurrying like a rat in a New York City park. Or like a bullet speeding through the dark. Each and every one of these abstract entities has a part. Nothing I touch seems to truly exist in a state of complete certainty. I’m the last one remaining. I’m the only one who has these memories. If no one else remembers, how does this heavy weight still exist. There’s no evidence in the marks of history. Did it even matter in the end? Why must I carry it all?