Reincarnation or the Insignificance of it all

I'm guessing this current life is as insignificant and inconsequential as the previous ones have been since they are having been lived and now completely forgotten.

There is little I find that has matter or is of any importance. 

I once thought I would create great works or write memorable and worthy things yet all those grand, puffed chest worthy ideals that I breathed and fed on for days and weeks turned into nothing but boondoggles due to my faulty, lofty, Aspergian misreality thinking.

Hours spent heartily engaged now dust on the shelf; paper doves alighted then flamed.

I have no one around me so the implications of my own actions or inactions affect none. I have done nothing today but sustain enough to say I lived through it.

I'm the paint on the wallpaper you pass by without notice.

I'm the drive through customer you forget the moment I leave.

I'm the client, client number 5 of the day and number 167 of the year, in the endless line of revolving items.

I wonder what my past lives involved. Was I tinker, tailor, soldie, mom? Was my presence noted by those around me? Were there many who knew my name, smiled each day and hoped to see me?

Was I a slave in a dirty coal mine, a laundress scrubbing clothes in a cold river, a servant maid or mighty worker of the cattle barn? So many possibilities.

I wonder if I've always worn chains, been enslaved, forced to work for others in unpleasant and cruel conditions. If so, then my lives have a repeating theme.

One who is enslaved. That fits like a well worn sackcloth covered in muck.

My life has little value and no worth to anyone but me. Not so much sad as true. It's what I've got.

I keep a window open a little at all times lest my decaying rotten flesh stink the place up for days and days and my little dog left without fresh air or someone to be able to feed her and let her out.

This is my life. I do it each day without vim or vigor or want of anything more.

I am well aware of the thick wall that prevents me from ever getting close to anyone else. It's impenetrable and I know it because I've been beating my head against it for over 50 years. Some call it autism. I call it extreme loneliness, depression and sadness. But, alas, it is what it is and all that I have.

This is my life. I continue to live it. And I'm sure it matters not a tinker's dam.

I know this and it saves me the heartache of trying, hoping and pie-in-the-sky dreaming.

I am but one small insignificant dot on an extremely large piece of paper. Life.