Torn between worlds, I ask myself,
What is it like, being me?

Nothing.  It requires nothing,
It’s as automatic as one-stop shopping,
Two in one, a conscious being
And me.  And yet..

If a different sperm, a different egg,
Would I still look out from these window sockets?
Inside another skull, would I still grasp
with other hands, step with other feet?

What if the doorbell had rung,
Unexpected, even ignored,
Yet altering time by a half second,
Or an eternity?

Would I not exist,
Or would I not-exist?

I have no problem with consciousness,
But why?