Piles on
There’s a stack of magazines at my feet full of people’s accomplishments.
I can’t bear to look at them. They keep arriving in the mail and collecting under my desk.
I don’t know what to do with them.
I read of the worlds of others and there’s this shadow that grows longer and longer across me.
It’s hard to live in that,
to do anything in that.
I don’t want to shut out the world, but the more I know of the world, the more I realize that I’m not in it.
In the corner of the back bedroom of my apartment I live a life of complete fantasy. Everything in theory. Nothing realized.
I’m doing it even now, trying to create a myth around these few lines.
What’s the beginning, the middle, the end?
Well there never is one, is there?
Nothing stops, nothing ceases, it all rolls forward and eventually rolls over us all.
And maybe the people in the magazines around my feet have realized this.
If there’s no beginning or end, and it’s all an abyss of possibilty and failure, none of it meaning a thing.
Why not go?
