Flashback: October 29, 1999

why does the issue of death
reappear again and again
in all i write and say?
or the problem of consciousness
or the problem of existence
and meaninglessness of it thereof?
why do i keep asking
questions starting with
an impossible 'why?'

I,
who has a couple of billions
of years of mindless collision
of huge amounts of matter and
energy
before and after my vain existence
am nothing but
a spontaneous order in matter
a spark
who has a glimpse of the universe
however simple and partial it might be,
feels pain, whatever it may mean,
for being so finite or
feeling so small before
what i saw, or i thought i saw

i want to reach an understanding of it
without why's and how's
with me being a part
yet, however insignificant it may be

i want a piece of my consciousness
to live, perpetuate,
seek what i partially saw,
hold it,
understand it fully and completely

why can't i?
how can't i?

Flashback: October 5, 1998

anywhere
between desperation and
death
my heart stops at
shallow waters of a
bleak feeling of smallness
horror and tragedy:
the feeling of increasing
entropy.
i am suffocated
with it.
without it i am
clinged to nothingness--
a breath of something
larger than myself,
slightly.

Monday, October 27, 2008

this is where dreams are grown
and fall victim to history

persistent threads of memories
pictures
sounds
smells
--believe or not
they have the most impact--
trail one another

with whole armadas of new beginnings
on the horizon

yet catastrophes
bigger than ourselves
smash everything
under the sun
unto the harsh wall of
statistical variability

"most of the time
things just happen, you know"

listening to maddening
shrieks of random noise
as hopes transgress to become
nightmares