This world is like a bridge.

When we see a bridge, what do we do?

We don't stay there and build a house on it.

We keep walking and cross that bridge, passing over it to the other side.

In the same way, we should just pass through this life, like travellers crossing a bridge.

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Lee Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

As I sit on my bed
trying to factorise dodgy equations,
I suddenly see dancing leaves
on my page
through the sun and trees.
Birds chirping, singing without bounds,
children chattering, as the ice-cream van does its rounds.
Cars cruising, as the breeze cools my aching hand,
as I sit here writing;
binomial theorems and Pascal.
The sunlight filters through my open window,
mingling with the cool breeze,
warming my bowed head,
as I sit here,
doing maths with dread.
The wind through the trees,
the coolness, the breeze,
sounds like water
boiling softly for Mum's tea.
Or like an air balloon
as it fills with gas,
leaves dancing to the beat of the breeze,
enmasse.
There goes the ice-cream van,
playing another tune,
as it goes on its travels,
where will I be next June?

-composed during a stressful season of exams and deadlines, mingled with stress and spots .