May 2018
another day has passed.
a day closer to the black sky.
and you read poetry today.
you read a book today.
But, what trace have you left on this planet, today?
Who will acknowledge it? Will you be misunderstood? Will a young boy with curly brown hair and silver eyes weep over your words for a hundred years, while listening to our now vintage songs?
Will anyone remember you? Will you matter, after the Earth makes hundreds of thousands of spins around the Sun, which perhaps is circling around something bigger? Will you reincarnate? Will you be alive? Will you just disappear, or will you stick around?
Is there hope for humanity, is there hope for immortality? Will they enable people to live forever, to find a way to break nature, a year after you die? Will people still follow the same traditions, as they do today, will families have lunch together like their ancestors used to have?
Will there be depressed children, stressing and crying and cutting themselves because nobody would believe when they say "It's too much"? Will people still be stuck in the circle of melancholy and nostalgy, held captured by the never-ending routine when the first thing they do in the morning is ask themselves " Is this worth it? Do I really have to go to work? Perhaps I should end this, maybe it'll be easier then?"
Will people still break under their masks that they hold with trembling hands, grasping the clay so hard that their nails break and their fingers bleed, just so their kids couldn't discern what's underneath it?
Will everything stay the same and nothing improve? Will there be a catastrophy and expunge you, the one writing this, the gorgeous stranger you met on the street on a cold winter evening five years ago? Will it also wipe out your elementary school teacher, wipe out the florist from who you bought that flower for your first love and a rose for your mother?
Will people change, mentally and physically evolve along with our brains? Will the names we have to learn by heart - Darwin, Watt, Dante, Boccaccio and Einstein become irrelevant comparing to the inventions that are yet to come? Will somebody prove they were wrong, will somebody speak badly of them? Will someone still adore Dante's Heaven and Hell as much as I do? Will people analyse poetry the way I do? Will anyone ever feel the way you do?
Will anyone ever make a decision like you did, will anyone look up to you?
Is there a reason to be stressed and depressed, when all of this won't last? Is there a point in searching for the meaning of life rather than picking a reason to live that satisfies you both mentally, emotionally and physically?
Will people have passion and hate and freedom of expression, will they be bold or will they become faded? Lost? Encouraged or enraged?
Well you'll never know.
And that's hard to grasp.
a day closer to the black sky.
and you read poetry today.
you read a book today.
But, what trace have you left on this planet, today?
Who will acknowledge it? Will you be misunderstood? Will a young boy with curly brown hair and silver eyes weep over your words for a hundred years, while listening to our now vintage songs?
Will anyone remember you? Will you matter, after the Earth makes hundreds of thousands of spins around the Sun, which perhaps is circling around something bigger? Will you reincarnate? Will you be alive? Will you just disappear, or will you stick around?
Is there hope for humanity, is there hope for immortality? Will they enable people to live forever, to find a way to break nature, a year after you die? Will people still follow the same traditions, as they do today, will families have lunch together like their ancestors used to have?
Will there be depressed children, stressing and crying and cutting themselves because nobody would believe when they say "It's too much"? Will people still be stuck in the circle of melancholy and nostalgy, held captured by the never-ending routine when the first thing they do in the morning is ask themselves " Is this worth it? Do I really have to go to work? Perhaps I should end this, maybe it'll be easier then?"
Will people still break under their masks that they hold with trembling hands, grasping the clay so hard that their nails break and their fingers bleed, just so their kids couldn't discern what's underneath it?
Will everything stay the same and nothing improve? Will there be a catastrophy and expunge you, the one writing this, the gorgeous stranger you met on the street on a cold winter evening five years ago? Will it also wipe out your elementary school teacher, wipe out the florist from who you bought that flower for your first love and a rose for your mother?
Will people change, mentally and physically evolve along with our brains? Will the names we have to learn by heart - Darwin, Watt, Dante, Boccaccio and Einstein become irrelevant comparing to the inventions that are yet to come? Will somebody prove they were wrong, will somebody speak badly of them? Will someone still adore Dante's Heaven and Hell as much as I do? Will people analyse poetry the way I do? Will anyone ever feel the way you do?
Will anyone ever make a decision like you did, will anyone look up to you?
Is there a reason to be stressed and depressed, when all of this won't last? Is there a point in searching for the meaning of life rather than picking a reason to live that satisfies you both mentally, emotionally and physically?
Will people have passion and hate and freedom of expression, will they be bold or will they become faded? Lost? Encouraged or enraged?
Well you'll never know.
And that's hard to grasp.
