Meaning is found in finding the ending of a beginning —
Completion in the light of intent.
Life is a slow movement between two points
We can’t remember the beginning — we don’t know the end.
We attach meanings to things that themselves know no place:
They’re devoid of time, lacking in substance, empty in space.
Foreign concepts that we have welcomed as our own
so that we can call another a lover — a house a home.
Without our feet on any solid ground, we flounder like children
to find our special corner:
our place where we build up shrines of ourselves so that our
memories aren’t squandered.
We praise the work of what our forefathers have built
while their hands had no part in this —
What did they do but usher us here and show us
the same abyss.
The echoes ring true when we shout into the night —
your voice comes back as you set it to.
We lie awake at night to hear the voice that isn’t ours —
the voice that we belong to.
But now you’ve startled and another day has begun
Just another day, not much different from another one.
It is a Wednesday and we are half way there
Half way to a small escape from a large despair.
I know not where I am going, or why I am here
but I’m relieved that the weekend is so near.
Dedicated to Moscos.