I wonder if we’re dead
living our lives in this eternal hell.
Consistently, i feel an irking
a nudge, an urging,
perpetually whispering to me the only truth:
“there is a way out”:
a light outside the window
a black shimmer
varying shades of color
all blacker than death;
Perhaps it is death.
What do you think? —
Can we not die, for we’re dead already
— Or are we always dying:
Dying an unglorius death
perpetually planning all the talks you’re about to have,
all the songs you’re about to sing,
all the life you’re about to live,
and yet forever entrapped in this enclosure, this enframing,
this preparation for a coming that never arrives,
that potent moment in time,
the origin’s true adversary.
Stronger perhaps, for it is this very present from which all past and future emerge.
I wanna fall in love. Maybe then I’ll be convinced.
When this world will lose all this meaning,
the unending fodder for my unfeeling soul,
and things will return to the innocence of senselessness:
the beginning which all endings set their sights upon,
the one true home.
“there is a way out”