Archive 11/04/09 - (2)

   

Isolated

                                                                  

 

 

Some nights, I find myself so isolated from society,

I don't even know if I'm alive or defunct,

Breathing, above ground, or decomposing, six feet under.

 

What a disturbing, unnerving sensation it is, I assure you,

To be unsure whether I'm in my own skin

Or buried beneath the epidermis of a creature from the deep black,

 

That abyss synonymous with the other world's silent, icy regions,

Where nothing of consequence occurs, season to season,

Except for the slow, glacial erosion of time's anonymous mind —

 

Millennial dementia the universe suffers

And bequeaths its terrestrial trespassers, for no good reason,

Save that possession is nine-tenths of death's law.

 

This night is particularly distressful, I confess,

Because I recognize not a solitary soul, and none recognizes me,

In this restaurant, where I've come to satisfy my lack of appetite.

 

Possibly, all of us sedentary beings are not even barely aware

That our weird juxtapositions to each other

Are meaningless, irrelevant, given the logistics of our ambiguity,

 

And that by tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,

Whatever grandiose delusions we once might have entertained

Will have vanished into that vast cosmic indifference,

 

Each of us realizing dying is living's greatest gift,

Our one great escape from life's deadly enterprise — survival —

And our only chance to become truly, elementally human.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

11/04/09 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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