If I told the void five words I must begin with one.
If I took the
patience of breathing, I must learn on the run.
Life is good. It
fights physics' second law.
I am but a small
tribute, and the words are ever only my saw.
For wood, you listen
and tell and we will.
Upon hill and dale,
between paramecium and whale.
The world appears to
thicken with noble thieves.
Each asks their due.
Dates mark our faces,
our very scheduled 10 horse races.
Are we not even the
numbers or minute ticks upon the face of the great clock?
Are we only a mass of
blank faces swept continuously by the great hands?
The motion blurs upon
our perception, like endless waves crashing upon a shore.
White water, white
noise.
Beaches made by shell
and stone blasted and belonging to each other over eons.
Our subconscious a
timeless accretion of interpretative urges, of sanity’s shell and reality’s
stone.
Ribald rivaling froth
of reflective existence.
What is too small to
notice, or make conscious note?
What is too little?
What does it mean to
be limited in range of perception, power and understanding?
Perhaps the
limitation allows the possibility of separation, distinction between the self
and the other.
And so Limit allows
the effect of identity.
We are defined by
what we are not.
Inside or outside the
skin, the perspective, the love, the denial.
The acquisition of
who we are is based upon where we are.
Life is the irksome
question that goads us to repeatedly attempt a conception of not just our self,
but also our other selves.
We come from many.
We are many.
Individual yet
interconnected.
Some grand result are
we, engines of angst.
Only to be satisfied
by motion and change.
For how else would we
manufacture motive?
