When you start something, you don’t know how it will end
Sometimes you don’t even know when it begins
Sometimes you only notice partway in
Like entering a labyrinth
Like a beautiful paintingOnly to look at, not to touchFull of illusion and falsehoodThe appearance of permanence — — Of tactility — — Of softnessLike a massive cotton ball — — A giant, fluffy beanbag — — A comforter that swallows you wholeBut they’re notThey’re wet — — and cold — — and darkMuch…
Look at us
Following a trail laid out
Panicking when an obstacle blocks it
Only to find a different route
And with each obstacle we wonder why
A man walking blindfolded
A tourist looking for an address but nobody speaks their language
A child being separated from their mother at the mall
A transfer student on the first day of school
Who am I?
Who are you?
Am I me?
Are you you?
Is the me I think is me, really me?
Is the you you think are you, really you?
It was a Tuesday.
Just a Tuesday.
Not a special Tuesday.
But it still happened.
On a Tuesday.
Of course it happened on a Tuesday.
Feels Like a Friday
But it’s only a Thursday
So tired of Thursdays
Those two words.
Uttered so many times they’ve lost all meaning.
Those two syllables, six letters, on repeat, like a record with a scratch, yet nobody to fix it.
It’s like a treadmill.
One which speeds up with each breath and each step.
Each smile and each laugh.
Each sentence spoke and each thought thought.
I saw you
Through the bamboo