It’s astounding yet
equally perplexing
how easy it is to extract
meaning out of what
does not need to mean
anything in order to exist.
But I am a human being
who, in addition to having
an innate compulsion to give
meaning to things,
writes poetry. Without
meaning, my self-appointed
role would be rendered
meaningless.
The emptiness of abandoned
buildings and the fate
of potted plants which
have not been watered for three
weeks make me feel the same
amount of gloom. Neglected,
left to exist for themselves,
they have become meaningless,
but only if we don’t
see them—and I mean really,
really open our eyes and soul
to see them.
Nature is fully capable of taking
care of itself, albeit in the fashion
of an angry, unforgiving child.
But buildings? What sort of feelings
could buildings harbour against the
fickle creatures who made them?
There are none. They either stand or
There are none. They either stand or
they crash to the ground. Neither is
done out of contempt nor love.
They are simply there. Yet
I look at them, you look at them, and
as we look at them together, we are
hurt by how alone they are;
alone
with no sense of loneliness, with
no sense of belonging, and no sense of
purpose. Their remains only remind
us of how easy it is to create and forget, to
forget about what has already been created,
and to create what will soon be forgotten.
And the cycle never ends, and
the cycle never ends—
the way the mountains and the seas and the
trees do not end… At least not yet, not without
our help.
Help! We are
all stuck in a story that was invented for the
mere sake of having no conclusion. So I,
a human being who writes poems, would
like to enjoy the silly pleasure
of creating an ending
(even if all I’m really doing is
perpetuating this endless cycle).