jumbled Cyrillic

I'm not everything.  Far from it.  However, inside me is not a vortex.  It's not an empty hole.  I have been created.  I'm not all that there is.  I think too highly of myself and those around me can't believe me.  Who is wrong?  Do I know anything?  When everything is crumbling and I just want to be a piece of someone else's puzzle, where do I go?  I don't fit well where I am, but I'm falling asleep in this cozy coffin.  Some people here seem to be so content sleeping in comfort.  Sleeping in the only place they've ever known.  Have I become them?  Have I forgotten my purpose in life?  Have I done anything worth noting in the last two years?  Have I done anything or will I ever even do anything?  Does any of this really matter?  Where are all of these words coming from but the tip of my nose or the nadir of my mind?

I'm more than nothing inside but less than any substance at the same time.  I'm an intricate circulatory map of organs and tissue.  I'm a product of migration, both mass and minute.  I'm a son of many men from moons ago.  We made it across an ocean but we deprived people of their lifestyle.  We have nothing to offer and yet we have thought we are more than others.  What are these invisible borders anyway?  What is it that society is telling me to be?  How can one be a true nonconformist if we're all products.  Products of what?  Of whom?  We're not goods to be consumed, we're not just dirt and magic dust, but what are we?

Can that be all there is?  Do we die and rise or die and fall?  Or do we rise and live or fall and die?  What are we?  Who are we?  When we fall asleep where do we wake up (both here and after)?  Do we just put on robes and bathe in the blood to be made clean?  Do we just sing?  What can it mean to worship unto infinity?  What is infinity anyway?  We all have our ideas and nothing is perfect.  Or is perfect nothing?  Is perfect a thing?  Is perfect perfection?  Is there a reason for all of this?  Are we more than morals and rainbow-colored songs?

Does God favor one gender?  I cannot think they do.  It is easier to call Him Him because that's what we've been taught.  Is that because that is all we could understand at the time?  Are we becoming wiser only to lose our knowledge and the drive to keep going?  What are we anyway?  Is there any meaning to all of this?  Who can really answer the questions if we're all living it together?  Why do I feel I must keep moving?  The seventh day is for resting but my fingers don't stop picking at sore wounds.  I'd rather pick my skin dry than to keep still.  Why?  And sometimes I fall asleep for lack of positive activity.  Who will save this evaporating soul?

Is there hope at all?  Can there be hope in anything here?  Who will pay attention to my vaporous words that mean nothing.  All of this is meaningless.  It might as well be jumbled Cyrillic to an illiterate Englishman.  If you can make sense of any of this, where do you come from?  If you make sense of it all, where are you?

Not even me.