The Originals

So deep, I can't even see myself.

Our lives are not our own.

History repeats itself.

We borrow achievements, steal dreams

From the people who were here before us,

Knowing that they are long gone

And can’t take them back.

 

We tell ourselves that we are unique,

That there is no one out there like us,

That we are the Originals.

But the Originals were the ones

Who invented the wheel,

The ones who first felt the warmth

Of a fire. The ones who

Saw the stars first.

 

We know this, and we are scared.

Because we know that that is the fate

We have to look forward to.

When we are long gone,

Just another chapter in History textbooks,

The new generation will build a wheel,

Or make a fire, or look at the stars,

And they will say, “I am Original.”

 

But who’s to say they’re wrong?

Who’s to say we’re wrong?

When the new Originals look in their

History textbooks, they will see

Us. The ones who didn’t need wheels.

The ones who didn’t need fire.

The ones who look down at Earth from

The stars first.

And they will say to themselves,

“Our lives are not our own.”