the feathers of the birds i can't see but know they exist scientifically

it’s different i say. it has to be different because if it isn’t different, i can’t justify myself ever trying in the first place. i feel like a waste of space, but i know nothing really holds value if you don’t want it to. i understand that the world was here before and will be here after, and then it won’t be because that’s how the circle moves. it’s no circle. i don’t believe it to be one. i don’t know why i called it one. maybe if a circle is present, that means we have to return to where we started. maybe i see some value in that. the very value i cannot see when i look at myself. i ultimately do not see myself because i do not exist. my lack of existence has nothing to do with the physical. i am sure i am composed of atoms, and i am matter and energy and whatever else i could possibly be. i am no scientist. i am no scientist, but science speaks on me and tells me what i am to be. scientifically, i am living. mentally, i a dying. i am dying because my reflection holds no weight. without that weight in my palms, i can’t tell if there’s anything i’m holding. everything is so light. light like a feather of the birds that chirp in the morning. they used to irritate me, but now i cannot recall why, and i forget the agitation and i forget the birds and i forget i ever fell asleep to wake up to the birds, and i forget the day i had before i slept, because i don’t remember ever waking up.