What happens when you do not know what to write about?
And yet your thoughts are coming in circles,
They are making way towards the unknown?
How do you know, what to write about?
How do you know, what gives yourself meaning?
How do you know, who you are?
And how do you know,
Where the end of the world is waiting for you?
Waiting for you to be found?
And waiting for you to be seen?
Waiting for you to be hold upon?
And waiting for you to be hold by your side?
Our thoughts are peculiar beings,
Queer and twirling in the wind,
Radical and sensing beneath the surface of the ocean,
Layered in the scare screws of the bites of humanity,
And wintered in the capsules of our soul.
What are our thoughts anyways?
Are they just here to torture us?
Are they here to mourn us?
Are they here to laugh at us?
What are our thoughts if not scratchy eyes,
Waiting for the moment,
To keep us astray?
Waiting for the moment,
To keep us aside,
And spit on us and tell us -
Hey, I knew all along,
That I was right,
And you were just a bogeyman?
Is it what they are waiting for,
Complexing us in our naivité,
Catacombing us in our laziness,
And eradicating us in our famousness?
Maybe they are just here to protect us,
To take us by the name,
And make clear to us,
That whatever we do,
We always know,
There is not that one answer,
And the one great of us to live by,
But all we do,
Is just a phrase,
A farce,
A weird something,
A something in the wider space of things,
A something,
We cannot even grasp,
We cannot see,
We cannot know.
We can only sense it,
And grasp it,
By the sheer unknowness of the universe,
Holding it still and gracefully,
With us in the layered peels of the onion.
In the hope of our time,
To grasp a tiny bit,
A tiny bit of what it is,
That makes us a special human being,
Framed in time and space,
Put in place and with two feet,
Standing still in the ocean,
The ocean of the wider space.
… written Aug 2024, Manhattan, NY