Trying to make meaning out of everyday matters
and these moments seems to mean so much to me.

Firstly, I wonder if dust matters to the dark
or city lights to stars
when they compete for its space,
and take up enough to make stars invisible,
unseen from the windows and streets
of London's nights.

And those streets, do they matter to the shoes treading them?
Does is matter to the street, being beneath them?
And I wonder whether our shoes ever matter to our feet.

What does it matter? Any of this?
Does it matter if it does?
What do I matter?
Do I matter much to anything?
Maybe I do, even to to matters I address in writing.

What makes matter out of anything?
Is our matter even real at all?
The matter of reality and wondering about it
can make matters worse
because if we are ideas instead of matter
some might conclude that this idea-life has no meaning
while others might will shrug and say it doesn't matter.

When I make make matter out of moments
by making books to fill with memories
and to document time
is there anything the matter with time I spend doing that?
Really, does it matter, either way?
We talk of it so often
but how much does time matter anyway?

What is the matter of me- what am I made of,
and is there any meaning to that?

What is the matter with me?
Everything mattering so much to me I suppose-
perhaps it's that.