Dust

I wonder if there really is anything, and if it matters in the end, if you try, fail, succeed, win, lose, if you do it alone or joined.. who keeps track? What substantiates each moment, like dollars with no gold behind them? Only passing from hand to hand, trying to be worth something. Trying to buy meaning, buy time, buy anything to feel like something more than the dust of the earth pulled together to form limbs and joints that move through the world until they can rejoin the dust that is still formless, and be nothing more or less for it. No more distinguishable from the rest of the dust than before it gave us form. Didn't Hamlet turmoil over the very same Idea? And has anyone gotten any further on the subject since? Didn't Shakespeare too, return to the dust? For all his great work, his sweat and work, didn't he end up just the same as every common beggar of his time? I don't want to be dust.