What if it all means nothing

When I heard about the shooting at FLL yesterday, a song I used to love came to mind, “What if it All Means Something?”

Then I read a witness account from a gal who met a lovely lady and her husband on the plane. They became instant friends. They walked to baggage claim together, got their stuff and hugged goodbye. 

A second later, the husband got hit by gunfire and his wife was dead of a bullet to the head. 

The lady was inconsolable. This was her new friend who was about to start her vacation. 

Which is my big fear, you know. Next to unemployment and dying as alone as I’ve lived. Being wiped out before my vacation and not at least after it. 

The lady who lived said she believes in a higher power and someone was certainly looking out for her that day. 

I say things like that too when I’m fortunate like her. I do like to think God dispatched an army of angels with my well-being in mind. 

But then I think about that wounded widower, and I just can’t breathe properly. 

What the hell are we here for, is that I want to know. What the hell am I here for? For the experience? To annoy Trump voters with logic? To keep taking care of stray animals and fellow loners the world has forsaken? To be an example or a really good warning? What?

Or do you just live, pay taxes, elect a dictator and die?

And without having a legacy to leave, just return to the ether like I was never even here?

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