There are so many things I would say to you, if only I had a voice.So many things I would write if only I had the words.
Here I drift, grey ghost, my physical body useless
trapped in time and place
bound by hours and days
tied hand and foot by convention
hobbled by routine.
My "me" is my spirit, and my spirit drifts through eternity
dumb
unable so much as to turn a page
So much for all the high thinking.
But think, all the same.
For each of us, the book of life begins with a blank page. Not even the author, whoever he is - "god" or the person himself or herself - can put a name to that page.
That comes several chapters later, and is the duty of the parents
Whose only contribution is to donate
two sets of genes.
Why do we spend so much effort over sex?
Is an orgasm worth all the heartbreak
All the bloodshed orgasms have caused over the years, the agony and the fury?
What is a neuromuscular spasm worth
any more than a sneeze
when you come down to it? What?
Why are we so fascinated by death?
Why do we lie awake at night (well, I do) trying in vain to imagine the fact of death, to accept the inevitability of the fact that we are going to die? And why the hell do we make a big production out of it?
It's all whistling past the graveyard
Denying to ourselves that we just do not know what comes beyond is all right, apparently. Even the knowledge that we are denying to ourselves is fine.
What isn't fine is acknowledging
that in all probability
NOTHING comes afterwards
that death comes as
THE END
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